


A Dark Reverie

by cocotiks



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1950s, Adult Tom Riddle, Adventure, Blowjobs, Canon Universe, Complex leads, Cunnilingus, Curse Breaking, Drama, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Good Slytherin Female OC, Good Slytherins, Harry Potter - Freeform, Lovers, Morally Ambiguous Character, Multiple Pov, POV Tom Riddle, Possessive Tom Riddle, Power Dynamics, Pre-events of Harry Potter series, Pureblood Politics, Pureblood heirarchy, Purebloods, Romance, Slow Burn, Slytherin, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Tom Riddle - Freeform, Tom Riddle After Hogwarts, Tom Riddle POV, Tom Riddle/Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Two bad people in love?, Vaginal Fingering, Young adult Tom Riddle, basically a pair of slytherins who are dark and brooding but hate and lowkey attracted to eachother, blood status, but maybe a little bad too, equal power, grey morality, strong female leads, tom riddle/OC - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:01:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 130,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27045409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocotiks/pseuds/cocotiks
Summary: 'It was maddening that he could be both beautiful and well liked. It pissed her off beyond sense, that he could make her blush and infuriate her all at once. But Alya Moore would not let Tom Riddle get under her skin.''Moore was an insignificant girl. Proud and stubborn. What gives her the right? To question him like that?"  He swallowed his rage like hot coals, scorching his insides. What he really wanted to do was wrap his fingers around her neck and throttle her.'1951 Alya Moore returns home from travelling the globe years after her expulsion from Hogwarts- to her pureblood family she's never gotten along with. She carries secrets, ghosts, and enemies. Alya's sins catch up with her, and so does a legacy she never knew she had- but really doesn't want.She unexpectedly captures the interest of the enigmatic, wickedly handsome Tom Riddle. Who sees more of her than she is comfortable with. Tom can't get past the unbreakable stubbornness of Alya Moore. Nor can he dampen down the pull of her allure. She is hiding something, he knows it. Hate spirals into a to a mutual obsession that neither one of them can let go of.A/N: chapter 15 smut ;) read from the start better context
Relationships: Tom Riddle/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 74
Kudos: 173





	1. Death's Many Forms

_**TOM** _

They should be grateful that he did not to torture them on the spot.

It would be a poor start to the New Year. 

He left the Malfoy party early as his Slytherin associates became drunker and he lost his patience to tolerate their moronic yammering’s. There were witches present, so he refrained from it, as he had yet to initiate any female members. The official Knights were careful not to over-do it, but the uninitiated were oblivious. He disliked being in the shadows. He wanted to be front and centre, for his followers spread over the country to put a face to his chosen name, to bask in their reverence. But Tom knew he had to weave his web discreetly, unless he wanted to repeat Grindelwald's mistakes. 

Tom pulled his coat around his mouth to block out the chill. The racket of Londoners reveling in New Year celebrations lessened in the twisting alleyways he wandered through to get home. It was his birthday yesterday but he hated measuring his life that way ever since he was a child. Nowadays, he scarcely feels a single turn of the Earth around the sun. He's been immortal for seven years, he has centuries ahead of him.

Tom slowed down as he spotted a hunched over figure in a dark cloak beneath the orange glow of a lamplight. There was a shift in the direction of snowfall to suggest they had apparated there a moment ago. The figure wore a dark-cloak and moved like a shadow. Most would be fearful, but this doesn’t deter Tom.

They lift their head, face covered in a mask from the nose below but their eyes catch his; dark grey like plumes of smoke. His first thought is that this is Death himself. His greatest nemesis comes in many forms, but Tom’s wand drops into his palm and he is ready for it. His vision turns crimson.

Before he can hex them, the figure disapparates. A flurry of snow in their wake.

* * *

**_An hour before..._ **

_ALYA_

The morning was truly stunning, sun beating down on her, the sky an azure blue as she emerged from the cave. Alya shields her eyes as she drags the sack behind her; dirt and sweat smudged on her face. Her body peppered with bruises and cuts. A gust of wind from the cave brushed the back of her calves like the breath of a great monster.

She unwrapped the skeletal remains of a long-dead King. Pilgrims that lived millennia ago have boiled the flesh away, but the bones of their king have been preserved religiously, white as parchment and smooth in the light of a high noon. His arms are crossed over his chest over a gold medallion necklace, metacarpals spread out. He was wrapped in silk robes that have become threadbare, but she reckons it was once a ruby red colour.

Such a desecration of burial grounds might’ve lead to her execution in another era, but all men died and withered six feet under ground, no matter the wealth or station they held during life. Plus, the civilization he once ruled was dead. Alya is being paid handsomely for this excavation, so it's worth the trouble she's gone through. She also gets to work alone this time, something she's come to realise she prefers. _No one to betray you. No one to leave you._ She cleaned the caked dirt from the skull with brush, staring into the gaping orbits, a lot on her mind.

She waves her wand over the remains to test the hold of the curse. She mutters several long incantations and breaks it, smiling in sweet satisfaction as the remnants of dark magic float off up in plumes of red smoke and sulfur. The skull cracks open under her boot and she checks the inscription carved inside of it.

Alya screeched when a hand snagged at her ankle. She fell face-first into the dirt. She looked back; lifeless milky eyes stared at her. Her blood went cold. She destroyed it to smithereens with a blasting curse.

The King’s undead servants had caught up with her.

They were _corpses,_ reanimated, withered and mummy-like, moaning in eternal suffering. Necromancy was powerful dark magic; since she was not the original caster she could not control the Inferi. Several more stumbled from the cave opening, that she stupidly did not seal off the moment she exited it. 

They wore tattered clothing, nothing silk like their master, their skin a ghoulish pale green. Some had their limbs hanging on by the shred of an artery, others with their entrails dragging behind them. She couldn’t discern which one was once a woman or man, or boy, but they all lifted their bony fingers right at her, wraith-like voices shrieking louder and louder. She doesn't need to know their ancient language to know they want to attack her.

Alya summoned the depths of her magic, it builds and builds within her chest and arms until it bursts forth from her;

_“Protega diabolica!”_

A geyser of blue fire exploded from her wand tip and formed a protective line. Any Inferi that attempted to cross it was incinerated. Alya hated casting such strong dark curses. They were unstable, and despite her choice of career she was not a dark witch, skilled enough to control them. They demanded a great deal of intention and willpower.

She shoved the wall of blue fire until every last Inferi turned to ash. Alya charged forward screaming; _“Bombarda maxima!”_ The roof of the entrance rattled, the earth beneath her feet shaking, until it was caved in. Alya waved her hand in a circle to direct the clouds of dust away from her eyes. Alya breathed heavily, wiping sweat from her brow. “I don’t get paid enough for this,” she grumbled.

The red-rock cliffs stretched out before her like the spokes of a broken crown. There was a sandstorm on the horizon. She defeated in Inferi, and she feels invincible. But Alya is eager to leave this cursed land. She's low on energy but she places protective and concealment wards over the area. Whomever successfully breaks the wards trying to enter the cave next- well that was none of her business. She jots down a few lines in her travel journal that is overstuffed with notes, old tickets, and hastily sketched drawings. Next, she dusted off her hands and used a cleaning spell to fix her appearance. She pulls her mask over her face. It will be cold where she’s going.

. . . 

After the days she’s spent in the hot and arid Jordanian desert, the cold is brutal, and sinks through her layers of clothing. She lands on a familiar street in London, breathing hard. Much of the street is obscured by shadow. She puts her hood up. She thinks she's alone but hears the crunch of a boot on the snow.

Alya turns, there's a man standing several feet away. He has dark hair but she can't see his features. She sees the unmistakable shape of a wand in his hand and itches to grab hers. Was he trying to scare her? Fearless, she knows she could take him. The thrill of a battle is dark and tempting. She lifts her head up, feeling for her wand, but suddenly decides against it. There was no point drawing attention to herself, her magic isn't recharged to full strength yet. She shouldn't be starting a duel when she has other places to be. 

She disapparates again to stand outside a tavern she is familiar with, _The Dancing Jackal_. It's the second time she's been here. There will not be a third. She’s written to the client to meet her within the hour. They use a two-way system of enchanted parchment and vanishing ink. She’ll get the second instalment of her payment then, and he can have his deposit back. Golden light spills out from the bar as people hurry inside to continue the New Year’s festivities, drunken singing and raucous music floats to her before the door shuts again. The music muffled. Alya digs through her satchel for the Polyjuice potion; she's made too many enemies to do these deals with her real face. A extension charm on the bag to helps her carry everything.

A loud _pop_ has her spinning and drawing her wand within seconds. It is aimed at the throat of a shivering house-elf.

“ _Badger?”_

Her pulse is pounding from the surge of adrenaline. She never thought she’d be pleased to see the family house-elf. She may not look like it with chipped nails, and her hair as wild as a bird’s nest, but Alya Moore came from wealth. Out of habit, she hasn’t lowered her wand. He is stammering in fear. She shakes her head realizing what she’s doing.

“Sorry about that. I won’t hurt you. Come here—“ She bent down and rubbed her knuckles on his head. She imagines it’s how she would greet an annoying little brother if she had any siblings.

“Badger comes with news from the manor,” he said in that croaky voice, swerving out of her grasp. He inclined his head deferentially but she knows he didn’t quite respect her as he did the other Moore’s. Pureblood politics were beaten into his old, gnarled head, that even he thought she was the black sheep of the family. He’s never been a fan of her, and the feeling was mutual. Despite that, she’s never mistreated him. He received enough grief from everyone else.

“God it’s only been seven years you little rascal,” she crossed her arms, the house-elf barely three feet tall, Alya has to bend down to look at him. “Why are you here? Are the family in the London house?” _House_ was a humble word for a white, gilded mansion. The family seat was in Ireland however, a seaside gothic manor of grey stone. Alya hasn’t been home in long while. She didn’t exactly leave her family in good terms.

He shook his head. "They are at the Manor."

“What do they want?” She demanded crossly, her suspicions mounting. “And why did they send you?”

He almost looks upset. “Misses Alya’s grandmother is—she was ill—”

“Ill?” Alya laughed almost manically. “Grandma doesn’t get _ill_ , she gets a bit pale if she’s sees any skirt above the ankles, but she’s never taken ill.”

“She’s dead,” he intoned solemnly.

That shut Alya right up.

* * *

**_TOM_ **

Tom takes small sips from his glass of Firewhiskey watching, as the ministry official and aristocrat become progressively drunker in front of him. Wakes are pathetic, and funerals are for the living, clearly. Even a wake for a pureblood matriarch unfolds the same as any party. Attendees are dressed in their finest mourning black robes, conversing in low voices, boasting about their empty achievements. It’s his first time in Ireland, but he won’t be seeing much of it. It was the goods he could acquire from the mourning family that Borgin and Burke were interested in, not so much the cold, wet sweeping moorlands or the Giant’s Causeway.

Kelwyn Moore, Head of the Department of Magical Creatures at the Ministry, the son of the deceased is currently inebriated in front of Tom. The Irish are known for their high tolerance to liquor but Tom has spiked Moore’s drink to make him more prone to suggestion. It’s rather indelicate to procure family heirlooms at a funeral, but Tom has been working on the Moore family for a month now, and they’ve remained immovable in parting with their prized possessions. Borgin won't allow Tom to leave this assignment empty-handed. So he wastes his time here, at a funeral wake for and old woman who's as insignificant as a fly to him. It’s a cumbersome task to schmooze and bestow false platitudes to the endless parade of old, proud, self-important wizards, but at this point this delicate game of power was second nature to him _; all a means to an end._ He'd charmed his simple-minded professors the same as he charmed them. 

Kelwyn was blotchy red in the face, a tall, and silver haired man, eyes rheumy with age. The aristocrat, Lady Wallaby is a trader in winged horses. She is absolutely of no interest to Tom, but expressed great interest in him. There is a fat diamond ring on her finger, but that did not stop her from clutching his arm and giving off her high-tinkling laughter at whatever he said. She’s flirting with him at funeral too.

_It never stops them_ , he isn't even flattered, just bored.

Tom feigns great interest in the subject of breeding Abraxan horses then excused himself for some air, much to the disappointed of Lady Wallaby.

He stands on the balcony, alone, and tilts his head up. The night sky is clear in the countryside, no signs of detestable Muggle life with their bright electrical lights and the incessant noise car horns. The manor hangs on a cliff-side by the ocean, the smell of the sea carried to him by the light breeze. Tom studies the constellations, star charts from his days in Hogwarts burnt into the back of his eyelids. It is almost seven years since school but Tom is a constant learner, his skills and knowledge would never go dull. Tonight he sees Theta Serpentis, a three star system; it forms part of a larger constellation; Ophiuchus, a man grasping a snake in his bare hands.

He senses another presence join him. He has to blink twice because it is dark and he did not hear them arrive. He feels the vibrations of their magic as they stand twenty feet away. Alarm bells ring in his head. It is the dark-cloaked figure he saw in London. He is certain of it.

_Death._

Tom readies his wand. Yet instead of charging for him, they head for the garden staircase, disappearing from view.

He relaxes, shakes his head, it is probably a late guest. It the second time he’s become this tense in a matter of weeks, despite conquering death two times over by now. He rejoins the party; he needs to check the time of the next portkey back to London. He locates Kelwyn Moore speaking to his daughter, Guinevere, a pretty blonde. At Hogwarts, she was an uptight pureblood towards him. She didn’t curse or hex him, but she definitely looked down on him for being poor. But when Tom’s power could not go unnoticed, and when he formed a group of loyal followers –a select few who knew of his heritage as the Heir of Slytherin—word spread that Riddle was not to be scorned, but to be respected. Thus, she fell in line too.

The drawing room entrance swung open with a resounding bang. The figure he saw on the balcony enters slowly, a harried house-elf scampering in after them.

The hood of the cloak drops. A woman with raven-black hair and grey eyes reveals herself.

The Moores look like they’ve seen a ghost.

“Alya?” Guinevere speaks first, a gasp of disbelief. He sees a vein pulsing on her pale forehead.

Alya spots her and smiled shrewdly. “You’re having a wake. Seems like my invitation got lost in the mail.”

Ladies near Tom look thoroughly scandalized as if she’s shown up naked. Alya stood proudly and takes off her leather gloves like someone who’s been riding winged horses her entire life, with pureblood sophistication. Although not dressed in any expensive gowns or jewels like the others, she fills the room with her presence.

Guinevere scoffs, _“_ You-you can’t expect to just—“ Sputtering like a stupid fish, she isn’t half as pretty as she was a moment ago.

“My dear niece, ladies and gentleman!” Kelwyn’s booming voice announces diffusing the scene. “It’s been, what? Seven years! Far too long, far too long my girl!”

Guests start to murmur amongst themselves. Kelwyn snaps at the house-elf, who jumps up with a squeak. “Badger ready Alya’s old room and fresh clothes for her."

“Yes Master Kelwyn!” The house-elf _pops_ out of the room.

"It’s good to have you back dear. If only it wasn’t under such somber circumstances. Your grandmother expressed how much she wished you were here in her final moments.” He muttered gravely, managing not to slur his words. 

Tom never interacted with Alya Moore in school, despite the fact they were both in Slytherin. There was one instance during his prefect year where he stepped in to monitor detention she was in, but everyone carried out their punishments in silence. She was a child borne out of marriage, and was bullied for it. He would never allow such a stained reputation into his ranks. Thus, she’d never been important or interesting to Tom.

Until now.

Guinevere plastered on a fake smile. “Welcome back, sweet cousin.” She embraces her with a kiss on the cheek. Alya looks like she’d rather be kissed by a slug.

She claps her hands, addressing the other guests. “Please, everyone, as you were. Today is to the remembrance of the great Constantina Leitenberger.” Alya swiped a glass of champagne off a tray and raised it in a toast, before downing the entire drink. It breaks the spell and everyone gingerly raised their glasses too. She wanders off; content to be left to her own devices despite the fact she is the star of the rumors that will spread about this evening.

He observes Alya Moore. Was this girl really, the 'Death' he's seen at least twice now? It seemed improbable. She was like no one he’s ever seen before in his entire life. She has thick raven-black hair and lush, full lips, the upper lip as plump as the lower. In her annoyance with her cousin, her cheeks reddened like ripe nectarines in the summer. Normally he could pinpoint people's heritage, but not hers. Her relatives had pale skin that burnt easily. Hers was brown, who's warm undertones would lap up the sunlight.

The culmination of her unique features and mystery might have tricked a lesser man’s base human desires—but not Tom. He was not a man, he was immortal, and he’s been manipulating purebloods for years to join his cause. In the end, the circumstances of her birth did not matter; they were all the same. _Proud, weak willed, and entitled._

He arranged the information he’s collected so far. He has a talent for sniffing out lies. He can’t use _Legilimens_ so brazenly because they would feel his invasion. But he found he didn’t need it. A keen eye for the complexities of body language and being an excellent listener has taken him very far.

“Your cousin travels for work?” He asked Guinevere.

She blinked at him, remembering he was there. “If you call 'work' squandering your inheritance on listless adventures. Her mother was practically a criminal you know. An 'independent curse-breaker' which is merely a fancy term for black market dealer. My father should have changed the wards to stop her from entering the estate, she is such an unsavory character, and to crash a funeral!” She scoffed disdainfully. “She’s just here for the will-reading, I bet.” Guinevere shakes her head. “I’d be careful not to associate with her, Tom. It will do you no favors. But enough about my cousin, let me introduce you to the Aquila’s!” She hooked her elbow through his arm; he pretended not to be irked by the boldness of her taking the lead.

* * *

**_ALYA_ **

She needed another drink, suddenly regretting returning home to begin with. No one could keep their eyes off her for more than ten seconds. Alya had showered, primed and fixed her hair, squeezed into her most expensive dress before coming. Her etiquette lessons returning to her easily the moment she crossed the wards. The girl she was in the desert running from corpses, felt like a lifetime ago. 

“Oi, don’t look at me like that,” she pointed at Badger accusingly, her mood gloomy, her temper short. “I am not _intruding._ You came all the way to London last night to find me and now I'm here.” He grumbled and returned to collecting empty glasses. He must not think she was _that_ horrible if he thought she wanted to attend the wake.

She took off her cloak, the gown she wore beneath was black velvet, long, with bell sleeves, and a high turtleneck made of sheer black lace. She had grown used to not having a house-elf to wait on her, thus she stowed away her own cloak.

“Do you want the house-elf’s job cousin?” Guinevere snapped at her.

“It’s only been seven years cuz,” she countered. “And it's grandma's wake, do you really want to argue?” Alya was too tired and jaded for that. “She’d be turning in her grave if she knew we were still bickering like children.”

Guinevere glared at her, before she could respond; Lacerta, her aunt, waved her daughter over to meet guests. Guinevere was a a year younger than Alya, but she was more than ready to be married off. _Like a cow at an auction._ An advantageous marriage was paramount to uphold the reputation of the family.

A portrait of Constantina with it’s frame wreathed in white lilies—her late grandmother’s favourite flowers—hung over the giant black marble fireplace. The artist had painted her seated in her late grandfather’s study. It was a realistic interpretation; she held herself the same way she did in life, strong and dignified, piercing hazel eyes watching the guests. She may have been a German witch but she commanded respect in this corner of Europe. Her grandmother was an elegant woman, delicate and petite, thus it was easy to be fooled into thinking she wouldn’t strip you to bones if you slighted her. Alya knows this, because the woman raised her.

“You haven’t written in a while.” The portrait began in that severe tone. She had way of making every sentence sound like a reprimand. Holding conversations with portraits would never be the same as the live subject, but this one was heavily imbued with Constantina’s characteristics.

“I’m sorry," she said sullenly, but she truly was. How could they blame her though? It was hard to connect with people she’d never been particularly close with over owls and letters. Especially when every interaction they had, was just her grandmother trying control her life. “You were worried?”

“We assumed the worst,” Constantina’s eyes are sharp, admonishing, but there was concern etched on her forehead. “We can finally put the incessant rumors about you to rest.”

She didn’t like the answer, but she wasn’t surprised. “Do we have to put them to rest? I kind of like those rumors. I feel so mysterious with them.” Alya was no stranger to being the subject of rumours. They were vexing but she was always morbidly curious about what ‘the society’ cooked up next. 

Her grandmother was not amused. “Where have you been, dear girl?"

“Everywhere.” Alya tapped on the fireplace mantle and a roaring fire burst into life inside it. “It’s a long story, but you won’t like it. It involves an array of things you told me not to do, and many more that you would _definitely_ tell me not to do.” She smirked, seeing the annoyance in Constantina’s features. The artist had even gotten that right.

“You never listen,” she tisked. A quintessentially Constantina phrase, it should be engraved on her tombstone.

_Have I lost my mind? I’m arguing with a portrait._ Alya grimaced and stared at the flames. Her grandparents, acted like her parents. They swept in and raised her as their own, out of obligation or love; she’s never been sure, perhaps a bit of both. _Family has a way of twisting the love they have for you._

Alya collected another flute of champagne and considers that she may need something stronger. Her grandmother was dead and could not titter about her drinking herself to sleep. 

She strolled to the music room located off the drawing room. Fairy lights floated above Alya and the guests lounging there. The grand piano is decorated in white lilies and black roses. She sat on the bench and played the opening verses of a piece from a Muggle composer, Claude Debussy, _Reverie._ It feels fitting because it’s one of her grandma’s favourites. The old bat may have disliked Muggle’s but she adored their classical music like a guilty pleasure. She fumbled a bit on the first two notes, but her fingers remembered better than she did.

If there was one thing her grandmother had been pleased about her, was her musical gifts. She eventually came to hate it; the long boring hours suffering under the governess’ dour stares, bruising her fingers piece after piece. Constantina ordering her to repeat them until they were nothing short of perfect. She much preferred it when her grandmother would shut up and leave her alone. There she could find a moment of peace, lose herself in the intricacies of the music.

But the miserable truth was; she never defied her strict grandmother or the societal rules placed on her. Even though it was clear everyone preferred her golden-haired cousin over her, and treated her as if prolonged eye contact with her-the Moore bastard- would ruin them. She stirred the pot a little, added a touch of insolence to her words and actions. A wicked child, but no outright defiance. Alya tolerated it for a very long time, until one day--she didn't. The day she was expelled from Hogwarts and she decided she'd had enough of her pureblood family. She tried to put as much distance as she could between the old and new parts of her life. 

Only to be dragged back into the fold once more. Looking deep within, even if she drank and swore too much, and her humor was not well met- she sat, ate, and walked like a pureblood. She learnt it thoroughly, albeit, begrudgingly. She was rather good at it too. So much so, she could never turn it off, even in the dingiest pubs in the middle of nowhere where no one would care if she knew what order to use silverware in.

She’s been at the wake for almost an hour, yet no one has bothered to speak with her at length, not her family, or any of the guests. She’d disappeared from their lives abruptly. Yet, maybe her return wasn’t as scandalous as she anticipated, of course it would be unpleasant but—

“You play beautifully.”

Alya stopped playing and glanced to her left. Her gaze meets that of the young man she saw on the balcony; dark-chocolate curls perfectly coifed, pale skin, and wickedly handsome.

“I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Dazed by his appearance, she blinked remembering herself. “It's Riddle, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Tom Riddle.” He smiled amicably, with perfectly straight white teeth. He hasn’t changed a bit since school; in fact, he looked even better now without the uniform. He was lean back then, as he was now. But at twenty-four he filled out the black robes, the fit impeccable on his tall, broad chested form. The collar of his Victorian-style shirt was high, but not too much that it hid the long line of his neck. And she definitely noticed that there was not a single pureblood in the room who held themselves in the regal posture Riddle could.

“Alya Moore.” They shake hands, his grip gentle and courteous. She stood out of the bench and he was still taller than her.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Ms Moore.” His eyes are dark, almost black, and undeniably magnetic. She feels herself being pulled closer to him even though her feet don’t move. He ducks his chin, somberly. “I am sorry for your loss.”

She realized no one has said that to her yet, and she doesn't have a response planned for it. “Thank you for coming,” she said, formally. Although she is unsure if those are the correct words to say, she's never been to a wake for a close relative before.

“Did I startle you outside?” She asked. “Apologies." 

“No need,” he replied in a voice low and smooth as silk. “You didn’t startle me.”

“You had your wand at the ready, I thought you would hex me.” She wanted to talk about anything except her grandmother. He was too far away for her to see his facial expression when she landed, but she wouldn’t put it past him. She was expelled the year he became Head Boy, but she never forgot that stern look sharpening his handsome face and that authoritative bark when he was a prefect.

“I am in an unfamiliar part of the world and you arrived rather unexpectedly into the vicinity. I took you for a dangerous specter. You’ll forgive this erroneous impression of you, Ms. Moore, I was glad to be mistaken.” She was struck with a most dazzling smile. His words, so eloquently and swiftly strung together made her heart race a little. She took a swig of her drink to wet her dry mouth and give herself something to do instead of oogling him. It’s not like she’s never _seen_ what he looked like; she’s forgotten just how beautiful he was in person.

“I would do the same, to be honest. It seemed as if I interrupted your stargazing. You were studying them so intently.”

“I saw all I needed to see.”

“Divining your future with the stars, were you?”

“I do it on occasion, out of curiosity." 

“How romantic,” she smiled playfully against the rim of her glass, holding his gaze. He titled his head an inch, studying her, his smile never faltering. Riddle had always been somewhat of a mystery to her. “So tell me, do you interpret the stars with Aganice’s theory or Callilipus?”

“Aganice’s of course,” he answered firmly. “His charts allow for a wider area squared for constellation interpretation. Not to mention his formulations combined Aztec and Ancient Greek techniques that have principles established in arithmancy. It’s the most reliable.”

“I would have to humbly disagree with you, Mr. Riddle,” she said. “I prefer Callilipus. Studies have shown that Aganice’s has led to numerous misinterpretations. I think it’s lost its credibility, unfortunately.”

He snickered under his breath, but he was keen and leaning a bit closer than the socially accepted distance. “It's known to have higher specificity.”

“Yes, but not sensitivity. True positives are far more valuable. It doesn’t do anyone any good to divine a change at their workplace; showing up the next day thinking they’ll get a promotion when in actual fact their wife is cheating on them with their boss. Next time try a hand at Callilipus and see what you glean from that."

“Perhaps it is the fault of an unskilled interpreter that would lead to such devastatingly inaccurate analyses using Aganice.” It was almost a challenge.

"You can't blame an archer for missing the mark if his bow is faulty," she said, cleverly. There's a flash of irritation that passes quickly, his eyes become lidded;

“I must say, Alya is a beautiful name.”

Something stirred in her chest, the way he said her name. Like a soft sound of a music note. She was warm under the layer of velvet and lace. Tom looks satisfied at the sight of her flush. Her eyes narrowed at him a fraction, calculating his intentions. People often underestimated her because of her appearance and because she was a woman. She extended the same caution towards others too. Sometimes she thinks being guileless would make her life easier, to flit between day and night in blissful ignorance. 

Everyone had been so taken by Riddle in school, ‘so handsome,’ ‘Exemplary student!’ Even with his Muggle last name. She could understand the appeal. His reputation preceded him for being _brilliant_ and intelligent. How could Alya interpret him as anything but a dashing young gentleman? With all the awards and glory he deserved?

“Flattery will get you everywhere, huh?” She maintains eye contact. His eyebrows knit, but besides that Riddle looked so effortlessly at ease with himself and the highborns around them. It was as if they were the ones graced by his presence, not the other way around, as if he could elevate any room he walked into. She couldn’t help but feel the tiniest bit jealous; Alya had tried to master that skill her entire life.

He sustained the eye contact effortlessly. “It’s the truth.” That smile turned into a charming toothless grin. “Do you always arrive to family events with a grand entrance?”

“Fashionably three hours late? No, I prefer on winged horseback with orchestra accompaniment,” she quipped.

“You’ve been gone quite a while. They must be thrilled to have you home.”

She pressed her lips tighter and breaks eye contact. She almost missed it, the little smirk tugging the corner of his lips.

“I travelled a lot the last couple of years. It’s hard to keep in touch, on the road.”

“How fascinating. You must have a lot of stories.”

She half-shrugged, none of which she cared to share with him. “I suppose I do, but you’ll have to forgive me it’s been a long day. I should retire.”

He inclined his head in understanding. “Of course.“

“It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Riddle.” She gave him a courteous nod, and a sweet, demure smile that she’d practiced for years.

“Likewise, Ms. Moore.” To her disbelief, he takes her hand and lifts her fingers to him, brushes his lips on her knuckles like a prince from a fairytale. His eyes locked on hers, glinting under the fairy lights.

She blushed even harder. Still holding her hand, he came very close, too close that she wanted to scold him for such an intrusion of personal space. He leaned in to whisper to her, his perfect mess of dark curls, shifting with the movement.

“Are you quite all right Ms. Moore?” He asked with concern that looked misplaced on his chiseled face. He smelt clean, like fresh linens and sandalwood. It was simultaneously calming scent but so intoxicating that she wanted to lean closer to hear him better. “Your knuckles are bruised.”

“Oh,” she swallowed, feeling as if her throat might close on itself. She snatched her hand out of his grasp. “It’s-it’s nothing. I must have landed harder than I thought.” She could lie a hundred times better than that, but he’d caught her off guard. Her stomach turns, recalling the moans of the Inferi.

Tom grinned at her smugly; mirth dancing in his eyes. “Yes, apparition can be tricky like that.”

She scowled at him. “I have no issue with apparition,” she shot back.

His eyes widened a bit. “Of course not,” Riddle raised his hands placatingly. “But do be careful on the landing, wouldn’t want you to get splinched.”

She forced her cheeks to arrange into a smile. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Riddle,” she said in a cloying tone that made her want to gag. “Goodnight.” Alya took one last look at his face; serene and composed, something dark swirling in the pits of his eyes. She spun about and left, her heart pounding out of her ribcage.

It was maddening that he could be both beautiful and well liked. It pissed her off beyond sense, that he could make her blush and infuriate her all at once. But Alya Moore refused to let Tom Riddle get under her skin.

* * *

**A/N: Riddle is in his twenties made the horcruxes of the diary and Gaunt ring so far.**

**To clarify my OC is mixed. So when I write that she's brown she's not 'white but 'tanned'' she's brown. I have struggled to find a way to describe it. Lemme know if there's a better way. Stay safe folks :)**

**Thank you for stopping by. Please leave reviews and Kudos. I need to know if this is good enough to continue.**


	2. A Well-Mannered Gentleman

**_ALYA_ **

She can feel Riddle’s stare prickling her spine as she storms off. The sight of her cousin exiting the powder room distracts her. She stalks to her.

“Guinevere.”

Nothing’s really changed between them and she can’t recall what it was that caused the rift between the cousins. But it happened, seemingly overnight when they were teenagers. Guinevere decided not to be friends with her. At the time she was too young to make sense of it all. That were spiteful to one another, and that was that. 

"Sneaking out, already?” Guinevere tossed her golden-blonde hair over a shoulder.

She might have stayed longer if it weren't for Riddle. She chanced a peek behind her. He was in the awning of the doorway, in the company of Lady Wallaby. Unlike Alya, Wallaby doesn’t mind getting close to Riddle, despite being married and having no business flirting with a young bachelor. He’s entertaining the dull older woman, and doesn’t appear bored at all.

_He’s skillful actor, I’ll give him that. I’d shoot a hex at my foot if I have to hear one more anecdote on Anethean-Abraxan cross breeding._

“Where’s Oisin?” He was Guinevere’s little brother. The only living member of her family she can tolerate. She hasn’t seen him since he was a toddler; hopefully his sister’s negative attributes haven’t brushed off on him.

“He’s gone to bed, you forget he’s still a boy. He ate too much chocolate mousse. He’s taking the funeral very poorly.” Guinevere regarded her warily. “You know... it was tactful of you to return during the wake.” It is almost a compliment.

“I wasn’t trying to be ‘tactful’.” That was a lie. She was. The family would never create a scene in front of so many distinguished guests. “Death does bring families back together, you know.” She cocked her head in Riddle’s direction. “He’s new. It’s not like you to let just anyone attend these.” Alya knew every ministry official and aristocrat in attendance in except for Riddle— he was a wild card.

“My father can invite whomever he pleases,” she snapped. “Not to mention Mr. Riddle is the most well-mannered gentleman I have ever met.”

That was the staunchest seal of approval she’d ever heard from her cousin. “What?” She guffawed. “You barely know him!”

“Do you?” She retorted.

This woman was truly unbelievable. “You used to sneer at him for having hand-me down robes in third year, remember? You told the Slytherins to cut a hole in his sock to match the one on the other side. Or was that some another Guinevere?”

She glowered at her. “You haven’t been home in _years_. Everything has changed, and so have I,” she stated indignantly.

“Are you going to tell me what happened? Badger said grandma was sick for while.”

“He was the one who told you? I thought he hated you.”

“Well don’t punish him for it. He already has to wash all your undergarments.”

Guinevere's cheeks tinged red with anger. She spun to leave.

“Oh come on, I was joking,” Alya grabbed her arm, stifling a laugh. “Tell me what happened. Please.” She asked gently.

Guinevere huffed in exasperation. “It was incurable. Grandmother did travel to settle affairs and possibly discover if there was anything to abate the symptoms. She wasn’t successful,” she said morosely. "She was forgetting things more often, and lung fever took her." 

Alya folded her arms, sullenly. “She could’ve asked me for help.”

“She didn’t tell us any of this until before was too late. It’s just like her to do that, to keep her secrets to herself. But she knew that matters of the family were more important. We’ve been doing very well, not like you cared to check in.”

“You look like you’re bursting at the seams to tell me,” she deadpanned. Her cousin did love to gloat.

“Father was promoted. They finally considered him after that muggle-born retired,” she said, with distaste at the word ‘muggle-born.’ Alya bristled. “You know the Irish hardly ever get leading positions. It’s important to set an example for the other families. Something you should take into consideration.” She said pointedly, and then smiled smugly. “I am also to be engaged.”

Alya snorted. “Who’s the unwitting lad?”

“Willem.”

Her mood went from ironically amused to sour. _Willem? Willem Aquila? My Willem Aquila? He wants to marry her?!_ Alya had no right to lord possession over him. Still...Willem was her best friend at Hogwarts. After she left, she had been awful at keeping in touch.

“He couldn’t make it today, but he’s been courting me for the last month. He’s been so sweet, even sweeter since grandma passed. I see why you doted on him.” Alya was too stunned to even respond, Guinevere’s sly grin grew wider. She would’ve liked to punch it off her face. “Leon Rosier has expressed interest too, and he’s wealthier. Mother prefers the Rosier boy.”

Alya’s features darkened. “You should stay away from Rosier.” He was half the reason she was expelled.

Her cousin ignored her. “What about you?”

“Oh coz, you’re not actually asking me if I’m being ‘courted’, are you?”

“You have our last name. You can’t come home and presume these things are not expected of you. You’re twenty-three, you should be married.”

“God, you sound like her.” Alya glared. “I can do whatever I want, Guinevere.”

“You always have.” Her cousin scoffed and shouldered past her. “Like that wayward mother of yours.”

Alya very nearly slapped her then, but she was too far now and she would just have to simmer in her fury all night. _I definitely should never have come back._

. . . 

She woke up with a start, panting. She thinks she taste blood in her mouth but perhaps it’s just the dregs of the nightmare chasing her into wakefulness. She stared at the ceiling of her childhood bedroom. She turned to her side and tried to fall asleep, hoping the nightmares would stay away.

Yet every time she closed her eyes, she saw him.

Alya huffed in frustration, and opened her eyes. She just wants to rest, for goodness sake, why was it so bloody difficult? She's tried everything she could think of but nothing was working. 

Running her fingers over spot he kissed, she can’t stop seeing his pupils, two dark pools, swirling gently, calling her. They’d never spoken until last night. Somehow she would have preferred anyone else; one of Guinevere’s little trio of Ravenclaw girls for example. Their haughtiness and upturned noses were far more predictable than the enigmatic Mr. Riddle.

It was impossible, to be that good-looking, clever and well spoken, not an imperfection in sight. Judging from his social circles of blood purists, bullies and thugs perhaps he wasn’t as _good_ and nice and charming as he made himself out to be. _A man is known by the company he keeps._

Still, his charms worked on her, a fact she was bemoaning. Compliments sliding off his silver tongue, his handsome features sculpted from an artist’s block, coupled with that low, alluring voice—

What lady wouldn’t melt at that?

But she’s lived with two-faced purebloods her entire life; she knew a front when she saw one. _Who is he, really?_ With someone that perfect, there’s always a flaw, a crack beneath the surface.

Perhaps he wanted to fuck her, but she’d never known Tom Riddle to show romantic or sexual interest in anyone during school, as if no one was good enough for him. Not that that stopped the adoration, it made him even more enticing. This may have changed once he left Hogwarts, no longer constrained by the rules of the school. But she wasn’t about to go around inquiring after Riddle’s relationship status. She wasn't that desperate. 

Thus, it had to be something else he wanted out of their interaction, and Alya refused to give it to him, whatever it was.

It was five ‘o’ clock, the sky a deep indigo, the moorlands a dark silhouette against it. She wore a pink, lacy, slip dress lent to her from Guinevere to sleep in. For all the skin it showed off, it was bloody _itchy._

_No wonder she’s in a foul mood all the time._

She got out of bed and threw on a silk robe. The restless energy had to be put to use.

The rest of the manor was asleep as she padded barefoot to the library by candlelight. She felt like a teenager sneaking out of dorms after curfew. Willem was her partner in crime on those adventures. He’d wait for her in an alcove on the second floor behind a Merlin tapestry and they would explore the quiet castle together. It had been so long since she wrote to him, years in fact. But she couldn’t help but think they were entirely different people now. ~~~~

_He won’t like whom you turned out to be,_ she thought with a tinge of bitterness. _And apparently you aren’t Guinevere. What does he see in her anyway?_

Creaks on the floorboards send her heart jolting. In her line of work, wizards, witches, and beasts have tried to kill her in the past. To be without a wand, even while asleep, was an easy way to get her throat slit. She couldn’t help but be hyper-alert to her surroundings. But she did not have her wand now... and why should she? She was home, nothing to be afraid of.

“Put that light out,” grumbled a portrait of a great-great-great uncle. She noted they hung her father’s portrait further from the rest, as if to both acknowledge and ostracise him. She inherited the signature Moore grey eyes from him. Everything else; unruly black curls and skin were from her mother—even her first name, which they never changed, surprisingly.

Vela Al-Parsi was charming and adventurous, an independent Curse-Breaker, and world-travelling witch — Micah; the eldest Moore son was smitten. Or as her late grandfather put it a ‘love-struck dolt.’ Alya’s grandmother was more forgiving in her descriptions. Putting the memory of her favourite son Ok a pedestal , claiming he was tricked and stolen from her by Alya’s mother. She wanted Alya to emulate him, but she was never good enough to replace her perfect son. Micah died before Alya was born, and her mother was too ill to care for her, _stricken with a malady of the mind, a curse,_ they whispered once Vela disappeared.

It was unfair,that the circumstances of her birth were knives to be used against her in the past, and now. House-loyalty was a fickle concept for Alya; she endured bullying from Slytherins too. But no more. She was older now, and stronger.

She spent her entire childhood brooding over the fact she was an orphan, until she found out she was not, that Vela was still alive. Alya tracked her down to Morroco. Vela was hesitant at first, claimed she tried to contact her but her grandparents had kept this from her. Alya didn’t know what to believe, but her life at that point had no purpose and no direction once she expelled. And so she followed Vela. Her mother taught her that the world was larger than the walls of the Hogwarts, the knowledge and magic to learn vaster than her imagination could conjure. She thought they would be inseparable until...the manticore incident.

Spite and anger tangle in her mind. That day had been particularly awful. But for a while before that day, things had not been smooth between them. Alya pushes these dark memories aside as the smell of old parchment and ink wrought a sense of nostalgia over her. It was her place of salvage, when the weather outdoors was not favorable and she loved outshining her classmates with a spell she mastered over the summer.

She collected favored texts from familiar shelves and went into the private study room. She sat in a leather chair to read, taking out parchment to make notes. Sometimes she stopped and tried to write down her dreams, so they might empty her head and fill the pages instead. As the hour wore on, a small stack formed.

She rubbed her bleary eyes, tiredness setting in. At least her insomnia had been put to good use. From the shadows she saw a furry outline pounce towards her.

“Ozzy! Alya cried, picking up the giant grey cat. She kissed its head as it meowed. “God, I missed you!” 

Ozzy used to claw at the hands of anyone who tried to pick her up. Her grandmother had protested vigorously when she scooped the big grey mass of hair, in Diagon Alley when Alya was thirteen. The cat was far too old and aggressive, and was thus unwanted at the Magical Menagerie. But she had been determined to have her. It had taken her months and a kilo of treats for the cat to finally warm up to her, and no one else. She was pleased the love was not lost despite the time away.

“I’m sorry I left you,” she said sorrowfully, scratching under the cat’s neck, her favorite spot. Ozzy’s pur rambled through to her.

With the warm cat against her chest, and the comfortable chair behind her, Alya drifted off in pleasant memories; she might just be able to fall asleep here...

_“Professor, it’s Moore, she nearly took his eye out!”_ Yelled Philomena Blount. They were in fifth year at the time, spreading awful rumors about her. Alya had hexed her boyfriend Conn O’Lachlain. His face had swollen up like a melon.

On her sprint to her favorite hiding spot she’d crashed into a form dressed in Ravenclaw robes. Willem’s eyes were particularly stunning that spring day, and she’d laughed in his arms. “ _We have a problem!”_

_“Just another Tuesday then?”_ He smirked, and told her he’d lead Philomena and the prefects away.

In this memory...or was it a dream..? Willem’s face morphed, his eyes an acrid yellow, he formed a mane that was soaked in blood, scorpion tail whipping behind him. He was crooning. She saw a row of white fangs, the hot spray of blood, felt the sting of curses burn her body. The sensations of the nightmare crashed into her in waves. Alya struggled to breathe from a combination of adrenaline and fear—

“Late night reading?”

She jolted up, her eyes flying open. She gasped at the sight of Tom Riddle.

Ozzy leapt off her lap. Her heart was racing at a hundred miles an hour. 

Riddle leaned on a shelf by the floor-to-ceiling window, one ankle crossed over the other. Like his black dress robes, his clothing was simple. He didn’t need further embellishment save for a black and gold ring on his finger. _A_ _family heirloom?_ The practicality of his clothes allowed his refined features to shine, breathed an air of nonchalance about him. He wore a white button-down shirt, tucked into tailored pants, and his black outer robes thrown over his towering form. His dark chocolate curls were pristine, as if he’d been up and about for hours instead of asleep.

“Did I startle you, Ms. Moore?” He asked her innocently, echoing her words from last night.

“I thought you would have left, last night, Mr. Riddle.” She was barely able to conceal her displeasure. Him turning up like this, while she was underprepared _and_ underdressed left a bothersome tick at the back of her neck. 

“Your uncle insisted I stay the evening and take the next portkey in the morning. It was very kind of him. He’s a most generous man.”

Ozzy emerged from beneath the table, padding towards Mr.Riddle. Alya stood up and opened her mouth to warn him that the cat would scratch but immediately shut up when Ozzy rolled onto her belly at Tom’s feet.

He knelt, rubbing Ozzy’s furry belly, purrs loud enough to hear from where she stood gaping in disbelief. Riddle grinned affectionately and with such kindness, it was almost...cute.

Alya scowled, trying to puzzle out how he’d won the cat’s fondness, after she’d labored at it for half a year. She crossed her arms, circling to the front of the desk. “You’re up very early. Were you exploring the manor?” _Trying to uncover secrets that don’t belong to you?_

“I like to wake early, there’s something sacred about quiet mornings,” he replied and straightened. Ozzy meowed mournfully at him as he strode away.

She sent the cat a dirty look. _Traitor_.

He approached the desk. “What are you reading?” Riddle picked and sorted through the books, examining their titles, taking great care with the old tombs as if they were as fragile as glass. Her gut tightened, feeling as if her soul was being analysed. He lifted the one she rested face down to keep its place.

“ _Daviola and Belacosta’s: The Four Elements,”_ he translated from Latin. The notes she made were sprawled everywhere.

“It’s just a bit of research,” she said, a tad nervous he was going to misjudge her character based on the reading material. “I had to translate the text a few times.”

“Some of these are modern languages.”

“I speak twelve languages." A skill her mother empathized she hone on their travels together. "I’m fluent in the ones needed to interpret ancient runes but I know several contemporary languages for my job.”

He wasn’t listening, engrossed in the book, a look of hunger in his eyes. One that she recognised in herself when she was excited to crack the spine of a new book, to feed a thirst for knowledge. She couldn’t blame him for that; it was a fascinating read. He rested the spine of the book in his forearm while long fingers leafed through the pages she dog-earred. His nails were cut short and neat. She was conscious of the wreck hers were in. The silence seemed to stretch forever.

“ _Ignis daemonium.”_ He read the page and paused, his gaze flashed up. “These are dark curses.” There was the gleam of intrigue in his black eyes and that hunger, before a veil of blankness engulfed it.

“And this is purely for research, Ms. Moore?” He asked with the tiniest hint of a tease, yet there was something undeniably threatening about it too. As if he could use this information against her. That was silly though; she was only reading about it she wasn’t planning on killing anyone with it. 

Alya went to him until both their stomachs were level with either end of the book. She grabbed the edges on her side and tugged it out of his hands with a childish possessiveness. He smirked and she felt her face go crimson hot.

“Yes, and what of it?” She demanded and shut the book.

“It’s unexpected.”

Evidently his perception of what magic _witches_ were capable of was limited. “Well, knowledge is knowledge and magic is magic, it can be done as long as it’s controlled, and within reason,” she protested and stacked the book on top of the others.

"'Within reason?'" 

"Yes, for defense or offense. But truly, it shouldn't have to be either of those." 

“You should be careful. Rest assured I am not one of them, but there are those who would disagree with these practices, controlled or not."

Alya was annoyed, _the audacity._ As if he had any genuine concern for her well-being.

“Yes I know—“ she turned to him and suddenly her mouth didn’t work. He was close enough that she had to tilt her head up to look at him. A stray curl grazed the tops of his long lashes, that curled far too prettily for a man. His lips in the light of dawn appeared red, as if wine-stained.

Was it possible for someone to become more beautiful the longer you looked?

His eyes darted at the length of her body, before fixing on her countenance. The silk nightdress did nothing to stop the gooseflesh that peppered over her skin. She spoke matter of factedly, despite it. “We can’t limit magic to only what is light,” said Alya, reigning in her wandering thoughts. “And I dislike the dichotomy of light and dark, it puts magic, even people into boxes they don’t belong in, but mastering ‘both’ sides, gives us what everyone else truly desires.”

“And what is that?”

“Unmitigated freedom. The ability to do whatever you want.”

He was infuriatingly silent and she wished he would say something so she could know what he was thinking. She resorted to explaining herself further to cut the brewing tension. “Yes, there will be those who disagree, but clearly their mindset around magic is limited.”

“In that particular curse the caster is creating life from fire and shadow. The beasts formed tend to have a mind of their own,” he said, there was hints of peppermint on his breath. Closer he came. She wanted to move but her feet were rooted in place, the desk at her back. She didn't know why, but the only direction she wanted to be is pulled further into him.

“It reminds me of Fiendfyre," she said.

“You’re quite right. The concepts are very similar. Even the Latin translations."

She shouldn’t feel giddy pleasure at that remark but she does. She liked that he was willing to discuss it, that he knew so much.

“They do take some time to master, you shouldn’t underestimate it,” he added. “It may take years.”

“I’m aware of that,” she countered, her competitive edge shining through. “I’ll give it six months.”

He looked annoyed, _“six_ months? Do you truly think you could master _Ignis daemonium_ in six months?”

“Just to prove you wrong I might.”

His brow raised a hair, his jaw grinding as if he meant to turn it to dust. Their eyes locked for what felt like hours. “So, why fire curses?” He asked, breaking the silence. 

“Well, something about fire curses are so...hm,” she brushed a finger over her lips, thinking. “What’s the word?”

“Destructive?"

“Beautiful.” She spoke as the same time as he did.

His features softened. “They can be beautiful, I agree. Fire lingers between the realm of life and death. Two sides of the same coin. These curses require a gentle wrist movement and unrelenting concentration to bend the fire beasts to your will.”

“That’s the thing about controlling dark curses isn’t it? Willpower.”

“Willpower is easy to summon if you want something bad enough.” He watched her intently, as if trying to pick her apart bit by bit like a condor with its food. “Unless of course, you intend to inflict irreparable damage on something or someone. Then by all means, let the beasts lose. But... I wouldn't want you to get into any trouble," he said playfully.

She took in his intoxicatingly clean scent, the glint of golden candlelight in his obsidian eyes. “That isn’t my intention," she smirked. "Don’t worry, I won’t burn the house down." She knew it was reckless, but she licked her lips, biting on the bottom one, glancing up at him through her lashes.

“You won’t tell on me...will you?”

His eyes dropped down, watching her mouth, his lips curling into a wicked smile. “I can keep a secret. I promise.”

Heat lurched low in her belly, as she squirmed under his intent stare. _Look away, look away._ She is undoubtedly warming up to him, but she cannot betray herself and fall prey to him. _That’s what he wants. For you fall under his spell,_ she scolds herself. She turned around collecting the books; they soared over their heads to distant corners of the library. A convenient non-verbal spell she mastered as a teenager.

If Riddle was impressed he didn’t show it. As impassive as ever. 

_Pop._ They whipped their heads around to Badger bowing low, his pointed nose almost touching the floor. “Mister Riddle—oh,” the white’s of his eyes widened. “Er, deepest apologies for the interruption—”

“You didn't interrupt, what is it?" She said.

“Misses Guinevere and Madam Lacerta invite Mister Riddle to join them for breakfast,” he croaked. “Misses Alya is to join them too.”

Riddle nodded. “I am honoured.”

"Make sure Mr. Riddle gets whatever he wants," she instructed him. Her grandmother would be thrilled to see that her 'gracious hostess' lessons hadn't been for nought.

The house-elf bowed again, "as Misses Alya, wishes." He _popped_ to the kitchens. 

They left the library together in silence. At the corridor, her cousin was leaving her bedroom. “Alya—oh, Mr. Riddle,” Guinevere's tone instantly changed from mild disdain to surprise. She stops in her tracks dramatically at the sight before her. “Good morning. You were both in the library... at this hour?”

There are plenty of insinuations to make. Her cousin is fully dressed in a simple sapphire gown. Alya on the other hand, is wearing revealing clothes, has dark circles under her eyes from a lack of sleep, hair un-brushed, and is exiting a library that has plenty of shelves to skulk in whilst doing unspeakable things with a devilishly handsome man. 

At first she felt embarrassed, but then, why should she be? Nothing happened. “Good morning coz,” she greets her brightly, owning her appearance. “Yes, we were having a riveting discussion in there. If you’ll both excuse me I need to prepare for the day.”

She glanced to smile at him, to find that he was already staring at her. She swallows and looks away, leaving them. Not any closer to cracking Tom Riddle's perfect veneer.

* * *

**Thanks for stopping by! Please leave reviews and kudos :)**


	3. A Gift

_____________

**_TOM_ **

“Oh this will look stunning in the London drawing room, won’t it dear?” Lacerta Moore held up the emerald Kelpie mantelpiece to her daughter. The horse-like sea creature pranced around on the silver base, tossing its mane of kelp wrought in emerald, the sunlight casting ripples of green light over the table. Tom had finally made some leeway and convinced Lacerta to purchase a piece. She was a willowy, blonde-haired woman, easy to charm, and much more inclined to spend the family’s gold now that her mother-in-law was deceased.

“Yes I think it will,” agreed Guinevere, whom was seated across from him, next to her mother.

“Alya.” Lacerta looked over his shoulder as her niece sauntered in. “You didn’t join us for breakfast," she remarked, testily. 

It was startling; the difference there was when Ms. Moore was put together. She wore a lilac gown with sheer panels over her chest and back, delicate embroidery joining them, her raven locks brushed and curled.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night,” her eyes slid over to him, before darting back to her aunt, firing questions at her. “Where’s uncle Kelwyn? Aren’t we supposed to read the grandmother’s will? Is that new?”

Alya sat in the armchair beside him, crossing her legs; she looked determined to pretend he was part of the furniture. _How insolent,_ Tom’s temper flared.

“Yes it’s new. And the will reading was postponed. Your uncle was called away for a Centaur incident in Scotland. The fourth one this month alone,” Lacerta sighed heavily; if she wore pearls she would be clutching them. “It’s dangerous, but he insisted on going personally to broker the treaty.”

_As he should,_ Tom had taken great pains to ensure the previous Muggle-born minister ‘retired early’ so that a pureblood; Kelwyn Moore would take his place. The entire family should be kissing his feet, expressing their gratitude to Tom for up jumping their status, elsewise they’d still be at the furthest corner of Ireland, completely useless to him. But alas, they couldn’t know how that he orchestrated these events. _Not yet._

Guinevere’s brows knitted with concern, whilst Alya just peered at her family flatly;

“Well, they’re angry that wizards are stealing their lands, I’m not surprised they’re taking up arms against us. Uncle Kelwyn should consider that they've inhabited the land longer than us too." 

“You’re for Centaur land rights?” The question spilled from him, his stare piercing her. She pressed her lips together and glanced at him, her eyes narrowing, calculating as they did last night, when he knew she was not giving into his compliments. 

“Well, of course I am," she said, a challenge twinkling in her grey eyes. _This one likes to spar;_ his mind had been occupied by their conversation about fire curses during breakfast. She was in over her head to think she could master fire curses within a matter of months. Tom simply smiled at her, and relented, just this once.

“Aunt Lacerta, you’ve definitely put your personal twist to manor décor, and-”

“I noticed the painting of Odysseus’ voyage,” Tom added with an appreciative grin, to butter up Lacerta and to irritate Alya. “You have impeccable taste.”

Lacerta’s cheeks went pink. “Thank you, Mr. Riddle.”

“You should see the London home. We completed a massive stained glass piece in the ancestral hall of Saint Brigid for Imbolc is absolutely majestic. We’ll be going there next week,” gushed Guinevere. A loud bong came from the grandfather clock. She stood up, glowing with excitement. “Oh I should be off, I’m meeting Willem for lunch in Dublin!”

Alya's forehead creased. She tapped her nails on the arm of the chair, staring stared at her cousin with a flare of envy. _Jealous is she?_ Ms. Moore ought to try harder to master her expressions. She wore her thoughts on her sleeve. 

“Mr. Riddle it’s a shame you couldn’t see more of Ireland while you were here,” said Lacerta.

“Such a shame.” Muttered Alya, whom was trying not to roll her eyes.

“Oh Alya, why don’t you show Mr. Riddle the estate lands. It won’t take long, just a quick trip to the beaches.” Lacerta suggested. Alya pressed her lips even tighter, lines of annoyance struggling to be suppressed. “The weather is more agreeable today. You should take him.”

“That would be wonderful,” Tom said smoothly, smiling at her. He took a rather uncharitable pleasure in this. They've only interacted twice. But something about Ms Alya Moore made him positively itch to do battle with her. There was no rhyme or reason to it. He just wanted to. “If Ms. Moore can spare a moment away from her books.”

Guinevere giggled as Alya's mouth crossed between a grimace and smile. Tom couldn't help but make another mental note of the generous fullness of her lips. He’d toyed with the idea of telling Guinevere the dark arts her cousin experimented with, but there would have been no point to divulge this information besides stirring unnecessary chaos. Besides, he was actually curious where Moore would take him.

He watched the bob of her throat as Alya swallowed her annoyance and rose from the chair graciously. “I would be delighted to.”

. . .

In the entrance hall, Tom waited by the large oak doors as Alya rummaged in the cloakroom for her cloak. He suggested that the house-elf do it but she was adamant on being _self-sufficient_ and fetching her own items. A large family portrait hung at the landing of the grand staircase, mainly of Kelwyn Moore, his wife and children. Guinevere and Oisin were spitting images of their mother, they had her lively sea-green eyes, there was not a trace of Kelwyn, except for the hair. He scanned for Alya's portrait but couldn't find it. She's tried hard to extricate herself from her family's influence. _Such a waste._ Tom did not fancy the term 'blood traitor' but it seemed fitting for her. 

He offered his elbow for her to take; she hesitated at first then rested her hand on it. He was pulled in side-along apparition, a heavy pressure around them as if their bodies were being sucked upwards through a straw. Tom noted that she indeed did not have an issue with apparition. They arrived soundlessly, not even the characteristic ‘crack’ to signal their arrival. They were entirely alone on the desolate rolling hills of the Irish coast. The ground was uneven and Alya stumbled, with a small ‘ _oof.'_ Tom grabbed her elbows to steady her, whilst she grasped his forearms tightly. He heard her breath hitch in her throat, her eyes flickering up to him. 

Tom smirked devilishly. “Careful on the landing now.”

It was wonderfully entertaining watching how her face changed. She blushed a deep red, and then blinked at him as if remembering herself before glaring at him as if it was his fault she stumbled and not her clumsiness. Moore swiftly retreated a step from his grasp, and with an arrogant tilt of her chin, spun away.

Tom exhaled slowly, his fingers flexing. She just had a way of riling him up. He needed to get a grip on himself, she was being courteous taking him around. There was something he begrudgingly liked about how she regained her composure and strode away confidently; her cloak billowing behind her, raven black hair whipping like a flag. He took a moment to admire the scenery. The sky was the colour of steel, the ocean wind swept the tall grass of the moorlands, and so it appeared like a shimmering emerald sea behind them. He could hear the ocean waves breaking the shoreline ahead.

“Where are we?” He asked raising his volume a bit because of the winds.

“Just a few miles north of the manor,” Moore cocked her head for him to follow. “Come on.” It was almost a bark of an order; Tom scowled at her back as he strolled behind her. He smirked, pleased at how she took _extra_ care not to trip again. _Maybe I'll let her fall flat on her face next time._

They approached the cliff’s edge, the ocean foaming white as it crashed on the jagged rocks heaped on the shoreline. She led him down a small staircase carved into the ledge. Attached to it was a rope bridge that connected to a rock formation. The sea however, was shrouded in fog, barely visible. “It’s so foggy,” she frowned. “It’ll be hard to see—“

With one flick of his hand, the fog parted like the red sea, clearing the area for a one-mile radius.

“—Anything.” Her voice drifted before she could complete the sentence. Alya was impressed. Tom’s lips curled into a pleased half smile. He flourished his arm out in gentlemanly fashion. “After you, Ms. Moore.”

“Thanks,” she mumbled stiffly. She led them to the rope bridge, it was a treacherous forty foot drop to the waves below. It seemed sturdy enough as she stepped on it unbothered. They crossed it, the wind slapping his cheeks, curiosity burning through him. The scenery was mesmerising, but she can’t be leading him to a shoddy piece of rock in the middle of the ocean, could she? How disappointing.

The rock formation was akin to a small island; it had small outcroppings of stone with tufts of tall grass and bushes with yellow flowers. It wasn’t large enough to be inhabited. It served as more of a lookout point. She stood at the furthest ledge, staring out at the horizon. He joined her and grimaced at the seagull shit plastered over several boulders.

“This is not what I—”

“Shh, just wait.”

Tom's jaw twitched. He did not appreciate being interrupted. Was this one of her tricks? They’d come all the way for nothing, and his patience was wearing thin.

He saw a shadow beneath the surface, growing larger and larger. He thought he was imagining it. Then a giant spiked fin crested the water, several others following it. Alya was silent and so was he as he held his breathe in anticipation.

A massive horse-like head burst through the water, fearsome looking, with serpentine features, covered in scales. Tom gasped, clutching his wand in his back pocket. It rose and rose and rose, fifty feet into the air before arching it’s long neck forward and into the depths, the sound it made like the crack of thunder. It’s long serpentine body rose in humps as it swam. Tom realized it was not fifty feet in length but a hundred. It formed whirlpools as it circled closer to the rock formation they stood on. _Like a meal waiting to be devoured_. Chancing a glance at Alya, she was the opposite of afraid. Her lips were parted, eyes wide and spellbound. She’s done this many times before.

“That’s Maeve, she’s older than any of us,” she said fondly, staring at the sea serpent's shadow as it twisted in the waters. It emerged again with a roar, like a hundred metal doors being ripped off their hinges. Five rows of vicious obsidian teeth in it’s maw, each sharpened like daggers. He tightened his grip on his wand. To his shock, Alya was laughing, a deep, and belly type, full of delight. It was not directed at him, but at the serpent, and it wasn't that shrill plastic quality he associated with purebloods. _Has she lost her mind?_ But it wasn't that. Her complexion was glowing with joy and wonderment.

It was much closer now. He stared at it in amazement, speechless. The sea serpent dwarfed them by comparison, neck wide as a bus, dark blue scales rippling in the sunlight, iridescent like thousands of mother of pearls. It’s belly white as bone, it's pupils were slits; set in eyes the size of tires the color of molten gold. It raised its head to them. He had the strange urge to speak Parselmouth with it, but that might give him away and it might not work on sea serpents.

It’s nostril flared, kelp and seawater sliding down it's back. It slowly blinked one giant eye at them as if in recognition of Alya, it's black pupils dilated. She outstretched her arm; Tom wanted to hiss at her for being reckless when the sea serpent roared again. His ears rang, as it dived into the water, a wall of seawater shot upwards over them. They reared away, but their legs were still soaked. All the while Alya was laughing in delight. _Perhaps she is a little bit insane._

He had to admit he was impressed.

“They migrate here from Scotland every New Year,“ Alya explained as they watched its humps swim further from them. Tom found himself incapable of a forming any divisive or cunning phrases. That was a first. This must be what living in ‘the moment’ was supposed to feel like. He wasn't sure. In spite of the wealth of knowledge he possessed, he's never in his life learnt how to do that. 

“They’ll go further North to mate, around Iceland. For as long as I’ve been alive, she’s never come here with any hatchlings. She’s always alone. They’re still hunted for sport, but they’re gentle creatures. You shouldn't believe any of the Muggle or wizard stories about them. They're completely false." 

He saw that in her hands, was one of the serpent’s scales, as big as a saucer, silvery blue and transparent. It explained why she reached for the creature. It seemed hard and strong. “I used to collect these at the beginning of every year. They’re lovely to use in jewellery, but they’re also used in potions to heal cursed wounds and anti-anxiety draughts. _Reducio,”_ the scale shrunk. She produced a small satchel to fit it in, then held it to him.

“A gift.”

Tom openly stared from the satchel to Alya, then back. He wasn't quite following. _A gift?_ He was stunned. He rarely got gifts, and _never_ for absolutely nothing in return. He never had any growing up. And he'd been consumed with overwhelming jealously watching his housemates open their Christmas gifts, birthday gifts, gifts for simply existing, and being _loved_ by their parents. _That detestable word._ Tom did get the occasional ostentatious offering from his followers; a show of their gratitude, or hoping to abate his fury so he didn't _Crucio_ them next. His mind instantly went to darker thoughts- that this generosity was another trick of hers to bewitch him. He quickly took it from her proffered hands before the moment became too awkward.

“This is very kind of you.”

She smiled and drew closer. The wind whipped her floral perfume to him; magnolias, bergamot, and berries. It reminded him of spiced tea and sugar. It was a heady scent, but not too heavy, just perfect.

“Let’s go back." She paused uncertainly and dropped her voice. “Mr. Riddle, I brought you here because I believed you would appreciate it, however, other people would not. Please don’t tell anyone about this place.” Alya's grey eyes met his; they were darker than her relatives. They reminded him of the dark underbelly of a thundercloud, strong and fierce. But now they peered at him entreatingly. They had a perceptive quality too, as if they could probe into your soul if you let them in for too long. Tendrils of hair brushed over her collarbone and forehead. A drop of seawater slid along her jaw, down the gentle curve of chin. His gut constricted with an unfamiliar ache. 

“You mean even your family doesn’t know?”

She shook her head.

"Only you, Mr. Riddle."

Tom felt as if he might float off this rock. He would’ve loved it if she muttered ‘please’ one more time. _All it took to humble her was to bring him to a sea serpent._ Her request still fed his ego, flooded him with control as if he’d slain a beast or swam across the Atlantic Ocean. In the span of a few minutes he'd formed a fierce kinship to the creature as he did did with the Basilisk. Alya was not acting like the same arrogant, entitled witch he thought she was. He was beginning to think he made a mistake. That was rare for him but some people were mysteries he had to unfold bit by bit.

“Your secret’s safe with me,” he said and he meant it.

* * *

_**ALYA** _

She was determined not to stumble and be caught by Riddle a second time. It had been mortifying; and he seemed satisfied to watch her bumble and trip on herself. Wandlessly he cast a spell to dry them off and she mumbled another thanks. It was becoming increasingly difficult to pretend she wasn't impressed by him. Something she learnt from her scheming grandmother was that people-including Tom Riddle-were locked chests. Their contents could only be unlocked with the right set of keys. Was it money? A thirst for power? A love for family? Most required one, some required several. As was the case with Tom Riddle. She thought she'd cracked him open; with flirtation, with generosity. Only to find that the key she thought would be her success was jammed. His chest refused to reveal itself to her, leaving her vexed and forced to try again. 

They landed on the gravel pathway off a field of cherry blossom trees, that are charmed to be in full bloom even in the chill of winter. The wards around the manor protect them from the worst of the weather. Their blooms poof like pink clouds, scenting the air sweetly. Pink petals shed like soft rain, blanketing the pathway, and their cloaks dust them off the ground. It is fairy-tale like and beautiful, she almost thought she could be content being home. They strolled side by side and she reminded herself to keep a distance from him. His dark hair is slightly mussed from the wind but it suited him. She doesn’t even want to think about what hers looks like.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

“I did.”

Alya waited. Waited some more. Nothing. _Not even a bloody thank you?_

He agreed to go with her for the sole purpose of vexing her. And she went out of her way, bringing him to watch the migration of an ancient sea serpent. She saw his eyes glittering with awe at it. She even gifted him a scale off it's back, and his eyes had lit up greedily at it. She didn't hear a thank you then either! Did it matter how 'well-mannered' he was if he was so ungrateful? Did she have to remind him that they _survived_ the encounter, solely thanks to her established relationship with the creature? Alya had an easier time impressing her hundred-year old grandmother- that was saying something. That tick of annoyance bounced over her neck, she could not keep the edge out of her tone;

“Are you always so serious?”

“Are you always so blunt?” He countered, not looking at her. 

“It was something I noticed, and sometimes I like to say whatever's on my mind."

"And have I been on your mind, a lot?" He smiled playfully. 

She led herself right into that one. Alya mind raced to find a quip to throw back at him, but all that rushed out her lips was air. Tom snickered under his breath, a low, rough sound. “Your mouth has gotten you in trouble before hasn’t it, Alya?” It was the slow seductive way he said her name, no man in all the continents she’s travelled to has ever said it like that. He stopped to face her. His ink-black eyes beckoning her to come closer. Petals have fallen on his shoulders, one or two snagged in his dark curls, it would be too easy to reach up and brush them away...

“I’m being a perfect gentleman in the company of a fine-young lady. Or is that not what you desire?”

The heat rose in her cheeks in spite of the cool air. His smile was truly a force to be reckoned as she felt a bit unsteady on her feet. “I’m starting to regret bringing you back, the sea serpent did look a bit hungry," she muttered, annoyed and feeling far too warm. He looked amused, definitely interested. He stared at her with a intensity that had her thoughts running away. She felt that electrifying tension brewing again.

Then Riddle turned away, walking and clearing his throat. “Do you enjoy being home?” He asked her, suddenly cold and formal. She blinked twice. Just like that, the charge of the moment is gone. Nonexistent.

_Had_ she been imagining it?

She didn’t, because it's him.

Irritation rose like bile in her throat. He gets off on this; playing with people’s heads, bodies, their emotions, as if every smile, every breathe and every look he gave the world, has been crafted to be appealing. _And with his magical prowess— it is a deadly combination._ She can’t put down someone for using these positive attributes to their advantage; she just doesn’t _like it_ when it’s used on her.

Alya quickened her pace to keep up with his longer strides. She shouldn’t need to be doing that; this is _her_ home after all. “I do feel nostalgic. I didn’t expect to be so sentimental to return home. Perhaps you can you relate?”

It was an attempt to make friendly conversation, but out of the blue his jaw is sharp enough to cut herself on. He slowed down, forcing her to do so too. “I'm afraid I do not share this sentiment.”

Alya was perplexed for a moment, and then realized her error. “That was tactless of me. I’m sorry,” she meant it earnestly. He was raised in a Muggle orphanage. That much she knew of his background. She remembered Guinevere telling Rosier and Avery to cut holes in his socks. He wouldn't have been able to afford new ones. But Alya being a coward and believing it would not have been very _Slytherin_ of her, had kept quiet about it as they went ahead with their pranks. Judging from the rigidity in his frame; he doesn’t believe her innocent slip up.

“There’s no need to apologize,” he said crisply, the planes of his face like granite. “The Muggles had their endless world wars, there’s nothing to miss.” And Riddle must have thought he'd put a pin in that, until she asked, out of curiousity; 

“You must know quite a lot about their culture.”

His brows furrowed into a vertical line, as if he wasn’t sure whether she was mocking him or not. Truly, she wasn’t, but he was taking this supposed slight out of proportion. 

“Not out of choice," he gritted. 

“No of course not, but you were raised there, so—”

“’Raised’ isn’t how I would describe their treatment,” he said with glacier-like coldness. It didn’t sit well with her.

“Well, no matter, now you’re here,” she said evenly. “Amongst pureblood highborn’s of the Wizarding world. An achievement.” She tried to sound sincere, but it came out derisive and he heard it too.

_He’s just like the rest of them isn’t he? Kissing their arses and licking their boots._

“Your opinions on these matters differ from your family?” He asked her; a demand. As if he would add _'answer me or else'._ Alya bristled.

“It’s no big secret,” Alya said, stoically. Her family were less vocal compared to others regarding Muggle-born rights, but they aired their biases in secrecy. Which was just as worse, if not more so. “Purebloods put too much stock in it. ‘Muggles,’ ‘mudbloods’, ‘blood traitor’. I’ve found such beliefs, to be extremely prejudiced, but that’s an understatement of the century. It tore our world apart, and if it wasn’t for Dumbledore we’d still be at war with one another.”

Riddle's eyes narrowed to slits at her mention of Dumbledore. His following laugh was sharp and humorless. “And _you_ were sorted into Slytherin? Did the Sorting Hat make an error?”

He spoke as if he were Salazar himself. “I have no idea what that raggedly piece of leather saw in here," she replied quickly. "But it was the place for me. The hat only makes half of the decision, but the rest falls on you. Didn’t you know that?”

He studied her for a long moment, lips a hard line, not about to snatch up her bait.

“I hope I haven’t offended you with my candor,” she went on, fluidly, sensing a win today. “Given the heirs you used to run with back in the day. You’re probably still in contact with them.” God knows how he managed to befriend despite how they tormented him. 

“Yes I do keep in touch with them,” he said soberly. “And you haven’t offended me, you’re perfectly entitled to your opinion.”

“Really?” Alya took a step closer to him, then another, his jaw hardening the closer she got. He'd assessed her for far too long. Now, it was her turn. She stopped when they stood two feet apart, eye sharp. “I probe about your past and insult your friends, and I haven’t yet?”

To her shock, he slid on an attractive, dashing smile, yet his eyes--remained cold and hard as ever;

“You’d have to do a lot more than that to make me unforgiving.”

“So you hold the same opinion of blood status as them, Mr. Riddle.” It was thrilling, trying to crack that perfect veneer. She could do this all day. “Having such an opinion, must make it hard to fit in, being a half-blood.”

“The halves of my existence proved inconsequential, save for my mother’s noble blood," he said icily. 

She made a disapproving sound. “I expected a well learnt man such as yourself not to be bogged down by such puritanical beliefs.”

“In the end it is the powerful magic that runs through me that defines me,” he sneered at her, teeth flashing. “I won’t have anyone tell me otherwise.”

Her heart was racing, pulse thunderous in her ears. He looked like wanted to set her on fire with a single look. She almost reared away, but she didn't. Alya has no patience for cowardice, especially in herself, and she does _not_ want to be a coward in front of Tom Riddle. 

“Hm, it seems like you’ve got it figured out.”

Alya could sense the static of magic radiating from him, brushing over her skin. They have a stand off of stares, black on grey, the magical tension humming between them until the vicinity became uncomfortably hot. In all the time they’ve spoken she’s discovered absolutely nothing new about Tom Riddle and nothing of use.

A loud _pop_ directs their deadly glares from one another and onto a house-elf;

Badger yelps and lifts his spindly arms to the air surrendering; “M-Master Riddle, Master Kelwyn has instructed Badger to bring Master Riddle to the portkey in Master Kelwyn’s study, please—“

“I know where it is,” Riddle cuts him off harshly, the tendons in his neck snapping. Then his eyes are on her, and it takes all her self-control not to shrink at the inhuman blankness in them. He offers his hand, and she mindlessly takes it. His large hand grasps her small one. Alya’s chest shudders as their magic collides into one another, rippling up her arm despite the gentle pressure of his palm. He must feel it too.

“This is farewell Ms. Moore. It was a pleasure meeting you.” He spoke with painstaking politeness, although his mouth barely moved as if it were loathe to tell her she was a 'pleasure'. “Good luck with your spell and future endeavors.”

“Safe journey, Mr. Riddle,” she murmured robotically.

Once she was alone, she collapsed on a stone bench beneath a blossom tree. Her mind oblivious to their beauty, breathing as if she’s run a mile chased by hyenas. It seemed that neither of them won, but she was exceedingly pleased that at least, she had the last word. How often does Riddle force his true self, his opinions, and his hunger into a cage? Soon it will no longer be able to contain them. She’s never been in the presence of anyone powerful enough to vibrate the very air in the room. _Damn,_ she thought as her heart came down. She almost, _almost_ wanted to do it again.

It was a foolish thought she instantly shot down. 

* * *

**Thank you for stopping by, kudos and reviews are appeciated. I'd love to hear what people think of the story. Stay safe :)**


	4. Unwanted Thoughts

**_TOM_ **

The large grey cat Ozzy pounced over to Tom, parchment in its mouth. He bent down to it, “good girl, thank you.” He inspected it, whilst the cat bumped its head against his hand and knee, purring loudly. “Clever kitty, aren’t you?” Tom scratched it’s neck. He stared into its yellow eyes, and gently ‘suggested’ that it go have a sip of water. He felt like a twisted version of a fairytale hero having animals do his bidding. _Even your mangy cat betrays you Ms. Moore._ In Kelwyn’s study he bid farewell to Mr and Mrs. Moore.

The power of the portkey hooked him around the waist and flung him through a tornado of time and space. Once he saw open air meet the rooftops of Diagon alley, Tom floated down, his feet landing softly on the cobblestones. Now that he’s left that place does he let himself openly seethe after a conversation with a particular bitch of a witch. Crumpled in his fist, were notes he stole from the library desk right under her nose. He stalked home impatient to read them. His chest constricted and a headache pounded against his temple. He doesn’t even feel the cold.

_She is worse than the entitled, rich, blood purist,_ Tom thought. _She was raised in their comforts, and still rejects it. Ungrateful._ If Tom had a fraction of the wealth she was raised in, he could have made actual use of it. He would have known he was brilliant from the moment he was born. Tom would have had a parade of governesses to educate him on wizarding lore and languages ( _and she speaks twelve!)_ , been exposed to purebloods from every corner of the world and fit right in with them.

He wouldn’t have spent the first eleven years of his life under the abusive thumb of Mrs. Cole; oblivious as to _why_ he was so special, why he could do the things he could, instead of wondering if her vile words were true. That he had devil inside of him. He never forgot the sting of her slaps. Especially the time he made a flock of birds fly into the kitchen windows, their feathered bodies exploding. The other children had screamed and screamed pathetically, jabbing their fingers at him. _Traitorous lot._ It was lonely, bitter reality that he would not find 'friends' there. Mrs. Cole had struck him so hard; his lip had burst open, blood dripping into his glass of milk. She threatened to send him to a mental asylum if he misbehaved, and it hung over him like a scythe. He knew that if she lived up to that promise, he was as good as dead.

He had a turning point one day. He couldn’t remember the exact date. He simply decided he had enough. He needed to survive. If they believed he had the devil inside him, then he should let that wickedness be free. If the mental asylum were his fate, he’d raise hell there too.

When he had the taste of the world he truly belonged in, the summers in London were like dragging heavy shackles through the mud. He had to clean like they did, cook like they did, _if_ there was any food to begin with. He longed to return to Hogwarts, where he felt a deep connection to the Earth beneath his feet. The castle walls whispered to him, beckoning him to the Chamber of Secrets, to finish the purge Salazar Slytherin started.

He despised Moore even more for broaching the subject of his wretched childhood. Taunting him with repulsive _Muggle_ culture, knowledge of which he couldn’t wash out of his mind with bleach, even if he tried. He had to remind himself that his hatred and disappointment at his past (especially to find out his magic-less mother raped a disgusting Muggle)—was what fuelled his ambitions.

He knew what Moore’s opinion on blood status would be the moment he heard that Muggle piano piece drift towards him, her nimble fingers moving gracefully over the black and white keys. It was no wonder their housemates and her own family loathed her.

Dumbledore was the only professor that failed to see him for what he was, mistrusted him from the very beginning, even when he was just a boy.

There was Dumbledore, and now there was Alya Moore.

But she was just a girl. An insignificant girl. Proud and stubborn. What gave her the right? To question him like that? He had swallowed his rage like hot coals, scorching his insides, when what he really wanted to do was wrap his fingers around her neck and throttle her. She was stupidly brave, coming _that_ close to him with that rude mouth. Luckily the house-elf had appeared or he would’ve given in to temptation.

He turned the Gaunt ring around his finger. _Who the fuck does she think she is? If she knew the truth she wouldn’t dare direct an insult to me, unless she was willing to die for it._ She was bold and dauntless. Moore didn’t fuss about her wild black hair or blush around any immodesty in her silk nightdress. _Unmitigated freedom._ She’d put it so...eloquently, with a playful smirk and soft eyes. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of his agreement.

He wanted to see how she would dance to impress him, but in the end he scorned her attempts. He was convinced she had tried to bewitch him with a sea serpent and gifts. No one else had ever tried those before. It was as if she inherently knew it might turn him. _How could she know?_ Tom had been teetering at the edge of a cliff in that moment, entranced by the storm in her grey gaze. He was glad to leave with his wits intact. As for her pity, her _‘I’m sorry,’_ whether genuine or not, was infinitely worse. He wanted to take her words, ball it up and hurl it at her face. Such weakness was poison to his mind.

He reached home and slammed the front door shut with a snarl. His entire body was shaking with lingering anger, but his fingers tingled with childish excitement. He stole from his classmates in Hogwarts, almost to spite Dumbledore’s reprimanding, but he hasn’t done it in recent memory.

He unfurled the creased notes. It was in Latin and translated to English. The handwriting was cursive and large. It went from borderline perfectionistic to absolutely chaotic within three lines, as if she were impatient to get it down. _What is going on in that head of yours, Alya Moore?_ There were symbols he did not recognize. Tom despised not knowing something. She drew little chimeras and dragons in the corners, and at the bottom of the page wrote; _‘how to control it?’_

Tom could have nicely answered all her little questions if she hadn’t been so bloody arrogant. He mastered fire in his sixth year. He knew those elemental dark curses like the back of his hand. _Even though I never had a massive library with all these ancient spellbooks at my disposal,_ he thought resentfully.

The next page was what appeared to be lines in a diary entry;

_... These are my ghosts, and this must be what it’s like to be haunted. I have to get used to it. I see them every time I close my eyes. Mother too, sometimes, just a flash of her dark skin and black hair. I woke up thinking I could taste blood in my mouth. I saw him too, as I tried to sleep. I won’t write his name here and give it more life than it deserves._

_I can’t keep my eyes shut for long enough. I am tired. So tired. I read and read until my eyes water; I touch myself, thinking that if I make myself come—the surge of endorphins will help me sleep. But when..._

It ended there. Tom grinned deviously. This was a reflection of her consciousness, a piece of her soul on this page, in his hands. It was almost better than a successful _Legilimens_. What ghosts distressed her to the point of insomnia? Was it ghosts of previous relationships or the actual dead? People with inherently ‘good’ consciences were pathetic, so easily bogged down by guilt.

_One day she will reveal it all to me._

He tried not to think too hard about the second half of the entry as he readied himself for work. He would be in store briefly to get further instructions before travelling to convince another withering Lord to part with his prized family heirlooms. It was tedious but necessary work, and will crush any thoughts of Alya Moore from his mind.

* * *

_**ALYA** _

“I wouldn’t have found these without you.” Mrs. Huxley delicately handled the diamond necklace and earrings on the blue velvet cushions. The sitting room was opulent; a glittering crystal chandelier above them and golden candelabras of Roman goddesses as tall as Alya. There was an empty pot of tea between them. Huxley was a widowed dowager in a plum gown and rubies, rouge on her lips, eye make-up too overdone for Alya’s taste. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

Alya nodded. She was dressed in a midnight blue dress and matching cloak. With a polite smile she reached into her cloak pocket. She held a pink vial to her; “the other item you requested.”

Huxley’s eyes went large. “Oh...oh I didn’t think you would find it!” She gushed in a whisper as if they shared a dangerous secret. She practically snatched it out of her grasp.

“I have my ways,” she smiled craftily. It was humorous to witness how they salivated at such menial items. _Sad isn't it? To chase youth._ The vial contained a deep magenta liquid; Peruvian-Red Belly dragon eggshell. It had strong rejuvenation properties. The species of dragon was virtually extinct and banned from general sale... unless you had contacts in the black market. Ms. Huxley was preoccupied but her free hand deposited the satchel of galleons in Alya’s palm. She was pleased with the weight of them.

“Just follow the spell I wrote and it’ll work. A little under the eyes goes a long way.”

“You are the best aren’t you? Thank you dear. I wouldn't have known such an elixir existed if it wasn't for you. It must have been wonderful to explore those exotic places with your mother. It was a treat to read about them in _Runes Today_ and the _Daily Prophet."_

"I used to write them for her." 

"Really? You must miss writing, and being on the road." 

"I do, but it's nice to have somewhere to come home to."

Her mother Vela, wanted to be famous, to publish her work on Aztec pyramids, temples of bones, ruins of Babylonian fortresses. Vela's family were historians and archaeologists. Famous in the wizarding and Muggles worlds. It had been fun, for a time. Never staying in one place for more than two months. There were girls her age who would never see more of the world beyond the four corners of their homes. She had cherished it once, basking in her mother's rewards and fame. And the job had an alluring dangerous quality to it that enraptured outsiders. 

Then came the troubles with money. Alya had grown up her entire life with it, she hated the idea of being destitute, or worse, asking for funds from the Moores. They resorted to trading excavated items and occasionally black market goods. Vela found the idea of selling her precious treasures akin to selling her soul. Alya was forced to be the practical one, and argued that every trip needed a profit. Alya knew how much they could make if they agreed to just one contract. Suddenly they could never stop arguing. Slowly, but surely the travelling started to feel like standing on quicksand, the world beneath her feet slipping as she was whisked along on Vela's listless adventures. According to her grandparents her father had been enchanted the same way in the beginning.

_Am I slowing her down? Does she resent me? Think me a burden me?_ Was a question that haunted her to this day. The danger of the missions escalated, along with Vela's lust for glory. Even the brushes with death did not deter her. Another question joined the first; _is she going crazy or was she always crazy?_

Huxley grinned, folds of wrinkles heavy over her light eyes. Her old palm patted her cheek almost affectionately. The last person who touched her cheek like that was her mother; _'I'm afraid,'_ she’d said.

“You should know," said the dowager, rousing Alya back to the present. "in the Order we’ve always found you to be genial company. Don’t pay any mind to what anyone else says of your character.”

The crones in the Order of the White Rose had something to gain from her. It was an exclusive ladies club of the wealthiest purebloods-women with far too much gold in their vaults to spend on auctions, fancy luncheons and high teas. On the surface they were respectable women, who were skilled at keeping their vices well hidden. With Alya they had no need to venture into decrepit areas like Knockturn Alley. They simply sent an owl to a pretty highborn girl who could keep her mouth shut.

It was exactly why she discreetly overcharged them. It seemed that despite the years she attempted to distance herself from this world, it found some way to reel her back in.

“Thank you Mrs. Huxley,” she smiled sweetly. “I am pleased to know that I have the patronage of your illustrious Order.”

The house-elf showed her to the front door. Alya immediately collided with a body. An arm shot out and grabbed her wrist, enveloping her in a familiar clean scent like a blast of icy ocean air. Her heart lurched, staring up at none other than Tom Riddle.

“Mr. Riddle.” They slid past each other, their gazes never leaving.

Flakes of snow dusted his curls. His cheeks were tinted pink from the cold, and his black coat bulged around his arms from lean muscle. His complexion was flawless in the minimal sun of the winter morning. _It is truly unfair how good he looks._ It was also unfair that she was constantly losing her balance around him as if he transfigured the floor beneath her feet to water.

“Ms. Moore, what a surprise,” he said slowly. Those dark eyes an abyss she could fall into, calculating her. “What are you doing here?”

He was acting like their argument at the manor never happened. “Mrs. Huxley is a family friend,” Alya fixed a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “I was tasked with retrieving her niece’s wedding jewels that ended up in Romania.” The winter’s there were harsh. She also had a bit of an issue with a black market dealer who she tried to resell his stolen unicorn hairs to. “I got there just in time before they were broken down to gems. Can you imagine having your family heirlooms whisked away and wrecked by such undeserving hands?”

His smile twitched but didn’t waver. _How does he have such a command over his emotions?_ She recently discovered he worked for Borgin and Burkes. Lacerta had plenty of transactions with him that she needed to investigate further, lest her aunt sell texts from the Moore library to fund her next auction bids. Alya couldn’t believe it at first. The brilliant, enigmatic, gorgeous Slytherin Head Boy, Tom Riddle— becomes a _shop boy_ after graduation? He could have been a minister if he wanted. ‘ _A wasted opportunity’_ her grandmother would say. Being a shop boy was perfectly fine. She had no right to judge another’s career paths. It just didn’t make any bloody _sense._

“You have an appointment with Ms. Huxley?”

“Yes.”

Alya smirked. “Keeping a lonely old lady company?”

Riddle’s smile slanted into a frown. “My business here is none of your concern, Ms. Moore.”

“Well, she’s in a good mood. You’re welcome.” She said with smug satisfaction. “All the best, then.”

Riddle was not smiling, and she saw his hand unclench and clench as if he wished it were around her throat. Before she left, he lightly cleared his throat. "You do look a bit ...tired. Are you getting enough sleep?" 

Her thoughts shuddered to a halt. It was an innocent question, a throwaway remark, yet it also wasn't. Yes, she was tired. No, she was not getting enough sleep, plagued by ghosts and nightmares. It threw her off, which was exactly what he wanted.

"Yes, yes I am. Thanks." She frowned at him, perplexed. His eyes were somehow darker, and it felt like the air had dropped a few degrees.

Then with a charming half-smile he dipped his head graciously. “Always a pleasure Ms. Moore." 

Alya swallowed her unease and spun around. No pureblood alive could hope to mimic his emotional agility, not even her. She stepped onto the pavement, the cold biting her nose. There was a thin veil of cordiality both of them maintained, but she doubted it would last very long _._ Mrs. Huxley was clearly looking forward to his visit. It must be so easy for him. Alya wondered if he’s ever been denied anything he wanted from his buyers, from women, from life in general. 

If they were sharing Mrs. Huxley as a client, that was a potential problem. It meant that he would be recommended to the Order too, and Alya did not like sharing. This applied to every aspect of her life. In this case, sharing clients was bad for business. Yet all Riddle did was chat them up and convince them to buy and sell items from the shop. How was she to sabotage that without burning down the entire establishment?

_Where does he live?_ He can't afford much working as a shop assistant. _How does he spend his evenings?_ Alya wondered . Does he go home? Or out to meet the Slytherin heirs, he’s so chummy with? 

She stopped after a few paces, the small hairs on the nape of her neck lifted, fear fluttered in her chest. _I am being watched._ She slid her hand into her wand pocket and peered down the dim alleyways. _Was it Riddle?_ He can’t have finished with Mrs. Huxley so soon. She loved regaling her stories to anyone willing to listen.

She whipped her head to the left.

In her periphery she swore she saw a flash of blonde hair, smelt the burning smoke of lingering magic. She turned and swallowed a scream. In a window reflection she saw him; blonde hair, bent neck gushing with blood, dead eyes.

Alya reared from it like a terrified deer, crashing into a couple behind her. A blink later and it was gone. _A ghost._ Her mind playing tricks on her.

. . .

Her hands shook as she removed her gloves in the Moore manor. It wasn't from the cold. If her mother was crazy, was Alya just a different kind? Reduced to guilt and a mumbling paranoia? 

“It’s been two days, where have you _been_?”

Alya's heart jolted, but she was far enough that her cousin didn't notice. Guinevere emerged with a scowl from the dining room as if she’d been waiting for her there for the past forty-eight hours. “The Wizangemot representative is only going to floo here when you arrive. So naturally we had to wait for _you.”_

“Good morning to you too, coz," she muttered wearily. "I was under the impression you didn’t care where I went off to.”

“It’s nearly _noon,”_ she pressed her lips into a flat line. They were all eager to discover what grandmother left them, none more so than her dear cousin.

“I was in London, if you must know,” the half-lie slipped easily. Alya didn’t have to tell her the intricacies of her business. Curse breaking was often unseemly. It was respected in the community. But a woman had to work half as hard as man to get an ounce of respect in it. And she knew her family did not approve, and at times thought of her as half a criminal. 

But Guinevere had other news to share. She extended her neck like a swan. “I am meeting Leon Rosier for lunch.”

Alya’s mouth bunched angrily. “I told you to stay away from him.” The aggressive outburst startled her. Deep down, her family was afraid of her; of how she’d changed. It hasn’t gone unnoticed that she woke up screaming from nightmares.

Guinevere, at least, is acting the same, which she is strangely thankful for.

“What is your problem with Rosier?” Guinevere asked snappily, coming to his defense. "If I recall, none of the Slytherins in your year were ever as cruel as those Gryffindors." 

Alya's saving grace had often been her pureblood last name. 

“Leon is mean.” It was such a childish statement. The truth of it was darker than that. Alya was more afraid that Guinevere would be _fine_ knowing what Leon Rosier and his brother had done to those poor first years. Her thoughts fell on Riddle, a total nobody the Slytherins unquestionably accepted with his stupid good looks and genius intellect. The way they looked at him for guidance, scurried from him as he cleared the halls as prefect. In a silent classroom of confused, bored teens, he would smoothly raise his hand. And with his honeyed voice, he would give the answer no one else could. He was never ever wrong, and the professors sung their praise of him to no end. Jealously twinged her gut. Hogwarts was years ago. In the end, it didn’t matter and it _shouldn’t_ matter. She was giving Tom Riddle far too much room in her conciousncess. 

Guinevere protested. “Leon is not mean." 

Her face darkened. “He’s a lecherous swine, and he’s cruel. You’ll regret getting married to that.”

Her cousin gave a sharp inhale. “How dare you!”

“What about Willem?” Alya asked, through gritted teeth, although jealously burned bright green in her stomach.

“He’s... sweet,” she hesitated then sighed disconsolately, “but we have nothing in common. He’s so passionate about his bloody publications in Transfiguration journals, he doesn’t even listen to me.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Alya deadpanned. A shard in her heart loosened, Willem had always dreamed of being the best in his favourite topic. 

“Honestly you are no help." Guinevere huffed in exasperation. “Besides mother and father want me to be with Rosier. He's the ideal match for us." 

It felt like old times, when they were each other's best friends, gabbing about boys until long past their bedtimes. “Surely you don’t believe you’re going to fall in love with him? What if you have nothing in common with him too, then what?” She stepped forward to her. Guinevere's gaze widened, startled. it had been a while since she got one of Alya’s stare-down challenges.

“You barely know him. He is polite and charming,” it sounded like Guinevere was trying to convince herself more than Alya.

“If grandmother was here she would agree with me,” Alya stated calmly. Her cousin never left the bosom of pureblood riches. She didn’t understand how cruel the world of men could be. Alya saw her mother make the wrong choices with men, all the time. Between the pair, Constantina had been thrice as hard on Alya compared to Guinevere. But it hadn’t been a waste. She had a startling clarity to see people for what they are when others refused to.

Guinevere shook her head defiantly, blonde waves bouncing. “Oh shut it Alya, you’re putting useless ideas into my head. Don't pretend like you'd know what grandma would want." Her face was getting redder, “you have idea, don't pretend like you suddenly care about all this."

Alya was taken aback, that was not an outburst she was expecting. “You're right, I don't know anything about it. Nor do I want to fight with you." 

“There you are! Bickering again? We’re waiting for you.” Kelwyn stormed out of the drawing room, cross with their tardiness. The pair rightly shut up, simmering. “Come on you’re just in time for the will-reading.”

Guinevere tossed her hair with a ‘hmph’ and stalked ahead of her. Alya didn’t _like_ her cousin, but she was worth a lot more than the combined wealth of the Slytherin boys she simpered for.

Grandmother left Guinevere jewels and silk gowns. Oisin, her grey Grecian winged horse Alfwind. Alya got her silver necklace, with a dainty teardrop diamond that nestled in the base of her throat when she wore it. She also left her a silver hairbrush. Her grandmother use to brush Alya’s hair before bed when she was a girl. The brush was lovely; there were carvings on the back of water nymphs against an inlay of white pearls. Alya was touched by the sentiment, but did not enjoy the bitter thoughts that accompanied it. It seemed as if Constantina was yelling at her to brush her wild hair even from beyond the grave; slapping her palm when she got a chord wrong on the piano, correcting her curtsy, sternly instructing her on the ten ways to smoke out a liar. _Thank God I discovered hair potions._

Afterwards in the entrance hall, Alya saw Kelwyn having an animated conversation with their business manager from the distilleries. The family made their fortune from the liquor trade. Her grandfather Lycus used to spend hours in the evening teaching Alya the books. It was why she was so good at trading in the black markets. For all the trouble she got in into during school, she was a diligent student when she wanted to be, when there was something she genuinely wanted to learn. He was the only person who realized that. He died when she was in fifth year, and things spiraled downward from there.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you about Rosier," she murmured behind Guinevere before she sped off to prepare for the date.

Guinevere spun about, arms crossed over chest. “You may have conceded to a lonely childless life, but I haven’t. What do you know of love and romance, anyway?” She snapped at her, her harsh words stinging. 

_Ouch._

Before she could leave, Alya grabbed her forearm. "Don't be upset with me just because I want you to be happy. You should want that for yourself too, Guinevere," she said evenly. 

She drew her eyebrows together, searching for any hidden meaning or snark but there was none. Her eyes crinkled and her mouth downturned. "I have to go," she muttered and Alya released. 

Guinevere was right. She didn’t know much of it. That was because she had been let down too often in her life. Or she had let others down, by being a terrible, disappointing granddaughter who could never live up to their lofty expectations. Sometimes she'd break through the suffocating waves with hope, and tell herself everything was all right. Only for the people she relied on to leave or banish her. Her father, her mother, and her grandparents. Her heart still struggled to pull the shattered pieces of itself together again, to make her whole. But she pushed people aside too; because she learnt there was no one else she could rely on except herself.

“Where are you off too, now?” Oisin tugged at her skirt. She glanced down at him, his head reached her elbow. 

“Nowhere, do you need something, love?" She felt sorry for Oisin, to live in such a big home with no one close to his age. Alya could teach him to enjoy books and riding winged horses like she did. At least he could grow up being spared Constantina's droning lectures and the air slaps she conjured with a swish of her wand.

“Can you help me?” He had a sweet and gentle disposition. With those big green eyes and fat cheeks she couldn’t say no. A cord of loneliness struck her heart. Alya knew isolation. Felt it seep into her bones during days she didn’t feel strong. When she ran to the girl’s toilet after Gryffindor boys set her school bag on fire. Hot angry tears streaming down her face, furious at the pile of homework she had to re-write, for fire destroyed items beyond magical repair. There were times she thought she deserved their torment, the hate, the rumours. A price she paid for being misplaced in this world. She found a way to pull herself together and drag herself out of it, but those days were the darkest. 

In the sitting room, Badger balanced precariously on a ladder adjusting the position of a painting her aunt won at an auction. By the looks of it, he’s been doing this often. There were a dozen new paintings on the wall from a variety of artists. None of which she really liked. Her aunt had a penchant for Greek tragedies apparently. It was unfortunate her taste was tragic too. 

Oisin led her to the plush Turkish carpet where his train set was scattered about. “It’s in pieces because the charm wore of,” he sat cross-legged beside it. “Can you fix it?”

She crouched. Inhaling, she waved her hand over it. They assembled into a red train reminiscent of the Hogwarts steam engine. It floated and settled on the tracks, speeding off, emitting tiny puffs of white smoke.

“Whoa that was amazing!” He exclaimed. “Will you show me how to do it?”

“You’re young but you can try. Imagine there’s a thread pulling the two pieces tighter and tighter. You can stick anything together. Two apples, two trains—“

The portrait of their grandmother cleared her throat. Alya glanced up at her, flat and uncaring. 

“Something to share with the class, grandma?”

“Lacerta spoils him too much, he’ll be fat,” the painting huffed sitting on an armchair. “Do you see a single portrait of a stout Moore? No! You were fat too, thank God you stretched out!”

“Grandma!” Alya chided. She pointed her wand. “ _S_ _ilencio.”_

They both chuckled as the portrait of Constantina wagged her index finger at them furiously, no sound from her mouth. The fun of defiance briefly burned in her chest. Then her laughter died. The portrait was a poor caricature of her grandmother, nothing more. Suddenly, she was mad. _Why couldn’t we have made amends before you died?_ Part of it was Alya’s fault for staying away. Her grandmother died thinking that Alya was a child she had lost forever, that she hated her. _But there were times, where I did love you. Where I wanted you to love me. Where I believed that you actually did._ It was just like Constantina to have the last word on their relationship.

Alya did not want to stew in these gloomy thoughts around Oisin. “Let’s take the train set somewhere else.”

As she helped him carry the toy train to his room she had a bright idea. "Do you have a pet?"

“A pet?" He eyes lit excitedly, then dimmed. "Oh but mummy doesn’t let me have pets. She says our pets are the winged horses.”

“Not exactly, you can’t cuddle with a winged horse.” They were as tall as elephants and would shatter the bed. “It’ll be our little secret.” Alya winked at him. “I can get you any pet you want, but it can’t be a larger than a cat.”

“A salamander!" 

“A salamander it is.”

"Oh really? Thank you!" He hugged her. Alya was too taken aback to respond. The child had no idea what kind of monster he embraced. 

But he didn't know, and she prayed he never would. Oisin let go of her and pointed to the brush she held; “that’s pretty.”

“It is, isn’t it?” She agreed, and held a lock of hair in her palm running the brush through it. “No matter how often grandmother brushed my hair, the ends the would always stick up.”

Alya stopped and stared at a section of pearls that shifted once the brush touched her hair. It revealed a small opening that could fit her pinky. She lifted the back of the brush off and found a crystal vial contained within it. Floating inside were silvery hair-like strands.

“What’s that?” Oisin asked, standing on his tiptoes to peer over her elbow.

The contents emitted a soft silver glow into her palm.

“Memories.”

She flew to the library and searched for the family Pensieve, but found the cabinet it was stored in for over a century was empty. She slammed it shut.

Alya returned to the sitting room where she found Badger still at with the ladder. “Boo!”

He yelped and lost his footing. Before he could topple over and break his neck, Alya transfigured the ladder to a slide. He slid down to land safely on the carpet. He rubbed his head, giving her a withering look.

“Where’s my aunt?”

He raised a knobbly finger at the tearoom that led off from the drawing room. The door was closed. He turned his nose up. “The madam is not to be disturbed.” She smiled at him sneakily, and then wordlessly used a charm to straighten all the paintings on the wall, completing his errand. Alya brushed past him, there wouldn’t be a thank you. 

She barged inside the tearoom. “Aunt Lacerta.”

“Alya—!“ Lacerta glared at her. “I was having a private conversation.” She held a golden-framed two-way speaking mirror, whose reflection was empty of a second face. Whomever she was speaking with had left in haste.

There was always some kind of gossip circling around the Sacred twenty-eight. "Where’s the family Pensieve?”

Lacerta looked staggered, but smothered it with a light; “Why?”

“It’s not buried with grandfather, so where is it?

“It’s at Borgin & Burkes.”

“What the hell is it doing there?”

“It hasn’t been used in three generations. Wrecked when the storm took your great grandfather’s ship down.”

“It doesn’t mean it’s completely unsalvageable. Send an owl to them,” she demanded. Pensieve’s should be kept in the family, not squandered away to the highest bidder. Her grandmother would also want her to use it to watch the memories. It was left to her in her will for a reason. For once, Alya wanted to fulfill Constantina’s wishes. “We need it back. It’s ours.”

“They purchased it. I signed the deed of ownership over to Mr. Riddle,” Lacerta wore a strong, dignified look, _‘I am in charge here’_ it read. Alya’s expression soured. She wished her grandmother was still alive. Lacerta would not be this bold otherwise. 

"You didn’t know?” Drawled Lacerta contemptuously, a palm to her chest. Her aunt was a different kind of snake all-together. Indeed Lacerta could put on an excellent show of languid, charming lady. But she wasn't as forthright with her scathing remarks as Guinevere was. They were carefully woven and passive aggressive. “How strange. Why, it seemed as if you took great interest in the young gentleman. I guess you’ll have to discuss the matter with Mr. Riddle himself.”

Thoughts of Tom Riddle were not going to leave her mind any time soon. 

* * *

**Thanks for stopping by guys. Please leave kudos and reviews so I know you're enjoying the story. Or even just some feedback would be appreciated so I know I'm not all alone here posting :)**


	5. You Had Me There

**_ALYA_ **

Alya never believed in dream divination until she dreamt of death. She never believed she would be capable of deciding another’s fate. To be the Grim prowling and licking someone's fatal wounds. Was it the future she divined in that dream? Or was manifestation of her darkness that drove her to take someone’s life?

She saw the manticore again, an amalgamation of beasts; quarter man, quarter scorpion, quarter lion, and quarter bat. It crooned a lullaby to her of crushing bones and torn flesh. Alya sprinted from it, her calves singing in pain. A shrivelled hand grabbed at her and another. Inferi were crawling over the cave ceiling like spiders. 

When she turned her head he was there.

Riddle, a dark angel with a white-toothed smile, black cloak of wings enveloping her to his embrace. He grasped her forearms. His hold was tender yet firm. He tugged her to him, to save her, or drag her into the abyss. Alya didn’t know, but she blindly followed as if he had all the answers to her endless questions. They are pressed chest to chest. He raised his hand, his thumb traced her upper lip, harder on the lower lip, coaxing her mouth open. A burning sensation crept over, hot and cold, like the searing burn of an ice cube on skin.

She woke up, panting. Her nightdress clung to her skin. This was the third night in a row where Riddle appeared in her nightmare. Magical dreams can whisper unwritten destinies, possibilities, as she'd learnt that fateful day.Alya shivered, _doesn't mean I want to believe it._ She got up and sat by the bay window. It was raining miserably outside. Typical moorland weather. There was a soft knock on her door. Alya mumbled to let them in.

Guinevere padded in, her gold-spun hair in a braid, wand tip lit. “You were screaming again." 

She hugged her knees to her chest. “I’m sorry."

Guinevere came to the other end of the seat, her hand was on her hip, sassy, but there was genuine concern creased into the corners of her eyes. “This is getting quite frequent. You should talk to someone.”

“Because you think I’m going crazy?” Alya muttered sullenly into her knees, not looking at her.

“Because you’re scaring Oisin." 

Alya swallowed and glanced at her. That was the last thing she wanted. Traumatising her sweet younger cousin. Perhaps she ought to move away. The Moore's had other homes dotted around England she could escape to. She noticed Guinevere had been less abrasive with her since their conversation about her love life. They didn't speak of Rosier, but they rode winged horses together yesterday like old times, racing through the misty atmosphere above the manor. Guinevere on an Aethonan brown coat, Alya on a Abraxan with a palomino coat and icy blonde mane. It was a rush to forget, to feel alive again, to spread her arms to the heavens and pretend she was a Titan from Greek legends, dragging the sun across the ether of two hemispheres. 

“So who do I talk to? Any bright ideas?”

“I don’t know. Me?” Neither of them thought that was a feasible idea. “Or...your mother?”

Loneliness tugged at her chest. “I don’t know where she is. I haven't seen my mother in months." 

"What...what happened?" Guinevere asked tentatively. "Do you dream of her?"

"Sometimes."

"And what happened between the two of you...?"

Alya gave her a flat look indicating she did not want to discuss it further. "It'll be dawn in an hour-"

"She waited for you, you know," Guinevere said quietly. "Grandmother." 

Guilt hammered into the forlornness of her mood. "She showed her love in her own way, didn't she?" It was much too late for anything now. 

Her cousin sighed, heading for the door. Alya appreciated that she was trying to reach out to her. “I heard it happens, you know, even years after wars," Guinevere said, gently, "you’re not crazy, Alya. It’ll pass.” 

. . . 

The London sky was umber, snowflakes fell silently, against which the avenues of leafless beeches and oaks are a darker grey-brown. Alya lifted her hood. She would prefer to have ample view of her surroundings, to be watchful of enemies’ dead and alive, but anonymity is preferred where she is going. She walked to Diagon alley then turned down a twisting stairwell to Knockturn alley. The outlines of the fronts of shops and their vile displays are blurred by encrusted snow. The walkers around her are forbidding, sulking in alcoves, refusing to meet each other’s eyes.

But they have as much to fear of her as she does of them.

The shop bell rung when she entered Borgin and Burkes. The store was large, dusty, and dimly lit. There is a large stone fireplace at the back, two gargoyles resting at either end of the mantle. Murky jars of unrecognizable organs, eyes, reptilian creatures float on one corner, and a hangman’s rope unfurled from the ceiling. She threw her hood off, a trickle of snowmelt dripped to the floor, a smile creeping up her face.

The store was a treasure chest begging for her to explore it.

Nonetheless, she is here for a reason. The owner Mr Borgin is entertaining an elderly woman. He is understandably stunned to see Alya. She is young, but much too polished. Her cloak is dark, but too fine, to be any common customer.

“Just a moment, Miss.”

Alya told him she would look around in the meantime. Her heart skitted and jumped at the plethora of dark artefacts at her fingertips. Some objects appeared innocent, their deceit carefully masked with ornate patterns and jewels. _Much like Tom Riddle is._ Alya drifted to a box decorated in jewels. It was egg shaped, its jewels winking at her invitingly. _Possibly Russian_ , she leaned closer to assess it, lips parted, stepping on her tiptoes like a curious child spying on a jar of cookies. Her forefinger hovered over the gold latch shaped like a fin. _Gold plated, eighteen carats, not nearly enough to—_

“Careful now.”

Her knuckles brushed the music box, it toppled over, but thankfully landed in her cupped palms. The butterflies in her belly fluttered alive. Tom Riddle stood before her. Her eyes burned tracing the curve of his mouth, pulled into an amused smirk. The emerald tie, contrasted flawlessly with his porcelain skin.The three-piece suit he wore beneath his outer robe is snug on his chest, tailored to perfection. Or perhaps it's only perfect because he wore them. 

“Alya.” He tisked. “Are you always this clumsy?” 

"Hello Mr. Riddle," she greeted, then added with a tone her grandmother would bark with. “It's Ms. Moore, to you.”

There was that familiar tick on his sharp jaw. It was switftly replaced with a pleasant smile. “Apologies, Ms. Moore." He corrected with a tad more enunciation than necessary. She instantly regretted telling him to call her that, now she would listen closely for the mockery when he used it. 

"Well, what is it?" Alya held up the box.

"It contains the song of a siren. Open it and the listener yields their control entirely to you.”

"Selling lies, are you? You should tell your clients sirens singing men to drown to their death is a myth. The box won’t work.”

He shrugged a little, grinning bemusedly, depthless eyes gleaming intently at her. “No one’s ever dared to open and find out.”

Alya steadied her gaze on him. Part of it was the challenge he echoed, her knack for mischief that her grandmother griped about endlessly. She smirked playfully. 

“Shall we be the first?”

She pretended to pry the lid of. A millisecond later Tom was a foot from her his large palms engulfed hers, cool and dry. _Ha!_ He was going to stop her. _I have you now, don't I?_

But instead of stopping her, his fingers grasped the backs of her hands and the lid came off. Her eyes popped and her heart jumped into her throat. 

There was nothing. No song. Just an empty box of velvet and lies. 

Tom laughed. It sliced through the stunned silence like a knife. It had a rough quality to it. Real. She devoured his reaction like a rose did the sunlight. He plucked the box from her palms, reached over and rested it onto the shelf by her head, a cocky grin on his lips. 

Her face burned hotter. “All right. You had me there.”

“Perhaps I’ve got you under my spell and you just don’t know it," he said, voice dropped low, mirth dancing in his eyes, his smile darker than it was previously. 

She rolled her eyes, her traitorous pulse pounding. “I highly doubt that.”

“I was just informing Mr Borgin and Mr Burke of what a lovely time I had in Ireland, made all the better by your family’s warm hospitality,” he smoothly added; “and you.” His dark eyes glittered playfully. There were no black wings behind his back embracing her, either saving her or destroying her. He was a man, completely normal, she told herself. 

“Did you have luck with Mrs. Huxley?” She asked to take back control of the conversation. 

“I did. She enjoys our conversations.”

“So it’s not solely home visits. You work in the shop too.”

She phrased it like an observation. “Yes, indeed.” He touched his chest to communicate his sincerity. “I am at your disposal, Ms. Moore." He was tamer in the shop, humble because he had to be, charming because he’s skilled being so. “I must say, you are not the clientele this store normally attracts."

"I am aware of that," Alya replied curtly, bored of the ceaseless assumptions the world and their mothers had of her. 

"But after our enlightening conversation in your family library, I know better than to make such uninformed judgments.” Alya doesn’t know whether to be flattered or bloody annoyed by rapid succession of the skilfully crafted compliments. “Is there something in particular you were looking for?”

Before she could tell him, an ancient spell book with hieroglyphs drew her in like a moth to a flame. “This is ...stunning,” she went to it. Her mother would’ve loved to get her hands on a piece like this. The pages were veined with gold and silver threads; the jewel tones a most vibrant array of sapphires, emerald and ruby.

"I couldn't agree more. Have you been to Egypt?"

"Once," Alya replied. ”The Temple of Amun," she translated the Egyptian runes. The pages were frayed at the edges, but still intact. Her fingers hovered over it. She stopped, afraid she would ruin the illustrations with her leather gloves.

“Please have a look.” Riddle stood next to her. His presence as mind numbing as ever. He was in his element here in the shop, and she was a stupid fly caught in the spider's web. At least she knew he was real and solid, not a ghost in her dreams. 

“The illuminations are most intricate. I restored them myself.”

She was loathe to admit his work was impressive. Alya’s attention dropped to his nimble fingers cleaving through the pages, and then higher, at the smooth column of his throat, to his strong profile, his dark locks hugging the shell of his ear. His lightless eyes, softened by the feathering of long lashes. The shop became stiflingly warm, then burning when he caught her staring.

“Don’t look at me, Ms. Moore." he teased, his half-smile a perfect crescent, “look at the book.”

Alya blushed, breathe snagging in her throat, and did so. She shouldn't have, but her curiosity got the better of her, and really wanted to move past the being caught red-handed admiring him. “‘Amun; Lord of truth, maker of men, king of the Gods.’” She pulled off a glove to run her fingers over the glyphs, felt the ridges of the page. “The page summons the deity for guidance,” Riddle explained, his stare prickling her cheek. “The sun for Amun and the river with which the one who calls to him wishes to navigate.”

“You are somewhat correct, but that’s not all the text wants to tell us, or rather, it’s what it doesn’t show us.”

At ‘somewhat correct’ intrigue and irritation battle in his eyes. He doesn’t want to ask, but it’s killing him, and she relished in it. _See how you like a taste of your own medicine, Tom Riddle._

“I see,” his cheekbones were so sharp she could cut her finger on it. “Elaborate.” His voice is cold, someone who is used to giving orders. 

Alya gave him a knowing smile, licked her upper lip and flattened her palm over the text. _“Kushfar-asfara.”_ Her fingers briefly brushed over his. She ignored the charge of magic, like a lance of fire aimed for her heart. The glyphs rearrange themselves into an entirely new meaning.

“A concealment charm. It's not quite as wholesome as it appears to be. The text is also used to channel Amun’s power, it claims, ‘to bring about a blight and plague over the lands of traitors to the pharaoh.’ Lovely.” She beamed triumphantly at something she was better at than him.

She already established that he was difficult to impress, and she saw him quietly calculating, measuring her up. His body was rigid, wound up like coil prepared to spring. Then it melted away, cool and gracious once again, "your Egyptian is very fluent.” 

"As is yours." 

She moved again and stopped at a glint of silver from the ceiling, her throat tightening. 

Riddle followed her gaze. “That is—“

“It’s used to harvest manticore tails,” said Alya, rather breathlessly, staring at the curved blade as it taunted her. “If you can manage to kill it. The... contraption is redundant if you can’t.”

“You’ve seen one?”

“They’re quite rare.” She deflected.

“Manticores repel all manner of charms because of a toxin that flows in the scorpion tail and their skin,” he informed her robotically, as if reading off a textbook that’s he’s obviously memorised. “They croon as they eat their prey.”

Panic flared in her chest. Her nightmare struck her; their dying screams, heads ripped clean off, the spray of hot blood on her face, the rumbling purr of the manticore as it ate— _it's my fault..._

“...Ms. Moore?”

Riddle watched her with a puzzled look. Alya gave him an unsteady smile. “I-I heard they’re sentient.” _He's not here to save you from anything, Alya._

He scoffed lightly, serious. “They’re beasts. I think if you tried to strike a conversation you would find yourself quite indisposed."

She gave a shaky laugh. He raised a perfectly arched brow at her. He had no intention of being funny, but a thoughtful look had come over him.

“I've been getting sidetracked. I did come here for something. My family Pensieve.”

"Ah," he ducked his head slightly a convincing display of humble shop assistant. "Unfortunately it’s been purchased."

"By whom?”

“Ms. Moore I can’t disclose that information," he said, mockingly appalled by her directness. _God he should be a stage actor._

“How much did you sell it for?” She demanded, with an astonishing impression of Guinevere’s entitlement. “I will outbid the customer.”

“Five thousand galleons.”

“Five thousand—“ she guffawed. "That is far too expensive; Lacerta must have sold it for a quarter of that." Not to mention it was broken. It would take some research to fix an object like that. He merely shrugged. Trying to crack Tom Riddle was akin to throwing a pebble at an iron door. Alya tried another key. She exhaled. “Mr. Riddle...I don’t normally ask for favours,” she wrung her hands nervously. Men liked that, when the girl apologized first. “I know we got off on the wrong foot at the manor and I’m deeply sorry for what I said,” the apology came easier than she thought, when she had other goals in mind.

Riddle’s eyes are dark and intense, unpacking her words carefully. “Please, I’m asking as a friend—I know we are not, but I was... hoping we could be.” She gave him a bashful smile. “I need to use the Pensieve. My aunt shouldn’t have sold it to you. My grandmother left memories to me in her will, and there’s no other way for me to view them. I hope you can understand that, how precious it is to me.” There was silence as he minced on this. He made her wait for it.

“Forgive me if I find your apology to be insincere Ms. Moore.”

It was like a slap to the cheek. “What?”

His small smile did not reach his eyes that were burning through her. _The searing burn of ice on skin_. “Every thought of yours is written so plainly on your face.”

Alya’s neck lengthened, her posture firmer. She hated being denied. She bloody _hated_ being toyed with. “I acknowledge that what I said was out of line—”

“Good, you’ve learnt some manners.”

Her fists clenched at her sides, she opened her mouth to retort.

“I’m afraid it’s out of my hands,” he cut her off before she could, raising his palm. “The Pensieve is no longer in the shop.” He smiled at her; beautiful and deceitful as the dark items of the shop. “I’m deeply sorry about this, but you know such items are exclusive and highly sought after. You're not the only person in England interested in owning one. Is there nothing else that interests you in the shop?”

“No. It seems like this was a waste of my time,” she sneered. For someone who knows how to be patient, Riddle makes her loose all of it. 

“That is unfortunate. I do hope you’ll visit the store again. I’d be happy to personally guide you through our latest procurements.” Riddle doesn't bat an eye. He offered his hand. She doesn’t bother to take it. No one in her entire life has politely told her ‘fuck off’ like this before.

With a parting glare that she wills to scorch his skin, she left with a; “Goodbye, Mr. Riddle,” and dipped out of the store before he can respond.

Alya apparated to a park not too far from Knockturn alley. She is cold, but stifling hot at the same time, smothered by her heavy cloak and the snow, just as she felt under Tom’s unyielding gaze. At school her bullies were dim-witted, straightforward with their hate. Alya could run circles around them. Here she is, a woman, going through mental hoops, tripping over herself and his whiplash emotions, trying to parse Riddle out and her own _body's_ reaction to him. It was infuriating.

She doesn’t like him. She might even _hate_ Tom Riddle, and this nonsensical effect he had on her heart rate.

* * *

**_TOM_ **

When Mr Borgin snapped his fingers at Tom as if he were a dog, he very nearly hexed the greasy old man’s hand off. He didn't have time to tend to a new customer, he was supposed to have a personal hour to oversee Knight matters. God knows sometimes his followers shared a single braincell between them, unable to take initiative without his guiding hand.

Tom fixed his tie in the cabinet reflection and peered over the tops of human bones and cursed Muggle objects. He expected an old hag, or another disreputable wizard trying to hide in dark robes. He did a double-take, recognising the dark blue cloak that moulded to her slender frame. She dropped the hood of the cloak, and his ire stoked inside of him like a fire. 

If Moore was attempting to remain unassuming, she failed miserably. She had the entirely opposite effect. Her cheeks were flushed, lips dark, raven hair cascading across her shoulders, her cat-like eyes wide, alert, focused. She had drifted through the shop, with a subtle awed expression, lips parted, as if the shop was a special treat just for her. 

She was a Slytherin blood traitor, unworthy of his magnificent forefathers House. Yet this was barely a factor in his frustrations. No one has ever mocked him like she did, challenged him, watched him, _sneered_ at him so freely, unafraid of the consequences, goading him to fight back. It was like she was put on the Earth just to spite and defy him. Alya- _no, 'Ms. Moore'-_ was attracted to him like any other woman, but for once he wasn't bored by it. He wanted more, to have some control over her reaction to him; manipulate her body to give him those delicate flushes, those wandering gazes as she checked him out. He often replayed the previous slights against his pride by her in the time he's known her. They were moments of weakness. He knew them well, for they haunted him nightly. 

He played out these moments, in slow motion; when he'd touched the backs of her hands, that were as hot as a furnace. That flabbergasted look on her countenance, the ashes in her eyes scattering, so innately innocent, and then...

The laugh that burst from his throat that had fucking terrified him. 

The shop bell had not stopped ringing, the scent of rain and her perfume still lingered in the air, but Tom couldn't get back to his office fast enough. He paced a trench into the floorboards. He had been so sure that there were no more secrets from the Temple of Amun book when he tested it beforehand. Until she demonstrated otherwise. How could he have missed that? He stood by and let Moore chuck that victory in his face in that smug, teasing Irish lilt. Madness nearly took him. He should have acted, done something. But her magic reverberated off of her like a chime striking the ceiling of a cave, and his mind was addled with anger and the magnetism of her magic. He wanted to listen to more, watch more. _Watch her._

Tom swallowed his rage. _That's nonsense. What I wanted to do was shove her against the shelves and-_

_No._ He dared not complete that thought. For he did not want to be responsible for that wild, untamed part of his needs, his hunger, that he locked away. There was a moment where Tom saw weakness in her, saw her soul shrink further from the storm of her eyes. He latched onto that. _Yes.. it was the manticore blade._ He intended to find out the connection. 

He wandered to store room, opened the cabinet where the Pensieve remained broken but very much in the shop. Lacerta Moore had told him not to allow her niece to it, to lie if he had to. For what purpose, Tom didn’t know, but part of him wanted to. He almost, _almost_ , believed Moore's apology. She was good, very good. He blamed it on the incessant human emotions—once vague, now blooming in his gut every time she was in his presence. It was impossible, for her to give in so easily. It was another manipulation tactic of hers, because he’s used it countless times too; give your enemy a pinch of honesty, generosity, to disarm them completely.

_Does she take me for a simpering fool like all the other men she’s used that on?_ Watching her face crumple when he told her ‘no’ had made him dizzy with power.

It was laughable that she wanted to be ‘friends.’ He did not have friends. He had followers. Eleven-year old Tom Riddle would never have believed he would be revered one day, but he found that it suited him. Friendships, relationships meant giving part of yourself willingly to another, which he refused to do. All the Slytherins were afraid of him, but in addition to that, some wanted to bask in the glory of his power. In the end, the reason they followed him did not matter; as long as they were loyal. _If she knows what’s good for her, she’ll learn her place, as the other snakes did._

* * *

**Thank for you reading everyone! Please leave reviews and kudos to let me know your thoughts! I have no Beta no please excuse any grammatical errors**


	6. Obligations

**_ALYA_ **

Her anger was a sharpened knife in her stomach. It drove her to practice her fire curses more fiercely. The air shimmered around her like a mirage with the remnants of magic. Her arm was tired, heavy as lead by her side, but she revved up for the tenth time to conjure the fire daemons. She was able to start the fire but not release them from cage of her wand. Once they became full-bodied beasts, there was no controlling them. She needed to master their invisible leash around or risk setting the moorlands aflame.

There was a cold sweat on her brow and she was nowhere near mastery with this spell. Part of it was fear she would lose control, the other was fear of failure. _With Tom fucking Riddle’s doubts implanted in my head._

Her plan was simple enough, cast the curse then direct the daemons into the sea off the cliff. Water would not extinguish fire from dark curses but the last thing she wanted was to lose control of the daemons, for them to fly or charge for Moore manor. She took a gulp of air, letting it fill her lungs, and raised her wand;

_“Egovoco daemoniae.”_

With a crackle, the fire sputtered to life. It surged from her wand in fiery plumes, heat caressed her cheeks, her chest. Alya focused her intent and the fire grew and grew. She turned her wand hand like a lasso above her head. What demon of fire would she give birth to? A dragon? A chimera?

A head formed, jaws, a neck...

Alya gasped as the half-formed daemon fought with her, struggling to break free of her control, a delicate tug of war. She gripped the wrist of her wand hand, her heels dug into the dirt, her grip loosening with every inch. Alya fell to her knees and with a roar the daemon shrunk inwards to her wand and was gone, leaving icy wind nipping her nose and empty moorlands around her.

_Fuck._ She smacked the ground and stood. Grass and dirt stains on her dress. Why couldn't she control them?

_‘Willpower is easy enough if you want something bad enough,’_ Riddle said, his eyes peeling her layer by layer. Alya had the power, and energy to do it, as for willpowe _r; I’ll give you willpower Riddle._

“Of course you’d be out here.”

Guinevere narrowly dodged the _Impendemtina_ jinx.

“Merlin’s beard! It’s me, you idiot!” She snapped indignantly.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” she exhaled, wiping her brow. It wasn't her fault she was on edge these days. Ghosts plaguing her sleep, and now Riddle her every waking moment. Alya growled. "Just don’t sneak up on me like that, will you?” She huffed and sat on her bottom in the tall grass. There was a crease in her cousin’s forehead, her mouth pinched with worry and trepidation.

_‘I’m afraid. I’m afraid of you,’_ her mother’s last words whispered to her, carried off with the wind. 

“You do cuss a lot more now, don’t you, cousin?” Guinevere scoffed. A normal, welcome response. “Don’t lie on the ground, it’s filthy!”

Uncaring, she nestled her head into the bed of grass and closed her eyes. She loved doing this; staring up at the grey skies, imagining great beasts made of clouds above her.

“I’m tired. What do you want?”

Her cousin didn’t say anything for a moment, which was a moment too long for her not to be gabbing about something. “There’s a dinner party at the Lestrange’s estate in Provence. Do you want to come?”

Her eyes flew open. She blurted it so quickly Alya barely had time to process it.

“Are you...are you serious?”

Guinevere was totally pacified. How odd. “I am.”

She couldn’t remember the last time her cousin invited her to any of these. She used to think Guinevere was ashamed of her. Alya doesn’t believe the reason they fell out was that simple, but since she returned she has an idea why. 

“Who else is going? What about Uncle Kelwyn and Aunt Lacerta?”

“They’re in London for a charity event. They asked me to go in their stead. There will be other Twenty-eight and ministry officials at Lestrange’s,” she waved her hand airily. “People you know.”

“What of people our age? I think you’ll find the people I get along with is very short list.”

“It’s Lestrange, Choubert, Travers, Oakheart, Malfoy, Mulciber. Few others too. They were all in my year with the exception of Abraxas. You can’t possibly have the entirety of Hogwarts on your little list.”

She waited for his name.

It never came.

Alya disliked not knowing. It would gnaw at her the rest of the day. Asking would only embarrass her. Or worse, manifest him. She didn’t even need to close her eyes to picture his; blackholes sucking her into their depths, his fingers leafing through parchment, transfixing her with that stare that woke a fire daemon within her stomach...

"Oakheart?” She canted her head questioningly. “I thought you hated her. What happened to Priscilla Parkinson?" 

“Oh you know how friend groups fall out. It’s normal once you leave school.” Guinevere was pointlessly dusting off a rock. Once done, she perched on it regally.

Alya never had ‘friend’ groups to fall out with. Only Willem. _I need to see him eventually._ She arched a wary brow. “And why do you want me to go?”

“Lestrange permits one guest and father instructed me to invite you,” she said weary, as if it was a great burden to bear. “We’re the next generation of Moore’s, you could care a _little_ about our family legacy,” she chastised.

It was rich listening to Guinevere speak of family legacy when she would be getting none of it. The empire would pass onto Oisin. Guinevere had nothing to her name except her jewels and pretty dresses. She wouldn’t even become her own person if she agreed to marry Leon Rosier. Alya’s blood boiled. It was appalling how much of this only came to her realisation when she was older. _No wonder she's so bitter at home._

“You said you were different, but no. Of course you wouldn’t be nice to me for no reason," she sneered. "For a moment I thought you wanted the honor of my company." 

Guinevere glared at her. “Being related to you hasn’t been easy, you know.”

She gave an indignant bark. “It hasn’t been sunshine and rainbows for me either, love!” She stood, dusting her palms off. God, her cousin could be insufferable.

“Alya stop, I didn't mean that," Guinevere said, getting to her feet. "It’s been difficult for the family since your father past, since grandpa passed. All the Moore firstborns getting picked off one by one! Not to mention, we have to compete with New York for Firewhiskey sales." Her cousin went off on an extensive rant about the business. _"...and_ I'm twenty-two, and I'm not even engaged!" She threw her hands up.

"I thought things with Rosier was going swimmingly?"

Guinevere scoffed, "you haven't met his mother. Can you believe there could ever be a time when people looked down on us?" She folded her arms, crossly. "Do you know what Louisa's mother said to at grandmother's wake? The snide bitch. She said I should move aside to let the younger ladies have a go at the bachelors! Can you believe it?! She would never have said that if grandfather was alive. This isn't the first time I've had to suffer such insults." 

This would be _the_ insult to Guinevere's ego. Alya just listened with morbid curiosity, strangely comprehending her cousin's frustrations. 

"They see me, and they see _you_ and little Oisin, and think they can get away with it. Thus, it's come to my attention that our reputation could be improved.”

“You mean _I_ could be improved?” She retorted. It was outrageous that the one kindness her grandfather showed to raise Alya in their home had been such an unforgivable act amongst the purebloods. She was smarter and stronger than the lot. Furious, Alya intended to march back to the manor and end this conversation prematurely. "Sorry cuz, you make semi-decent argument but you don't need me, and I-"

“I've been watching you," Guinevere followed her. “You’ve grown up, which is good. It’s the social season and if you could just attend a few of these events and—”

“Show face?” Alya rounded on her. “Make all of you look good?”

Guinevere’s jaw tightened, breathing in through her nose. They were both the same in that they hated asking for help. “Yes."

She glared at her, almost hissing. "Oh please, you've only ever seen me as a stain on our reputation." 

"That isn't true," she shook her head, her blonde hair shifting to and fro, her jaw working as if she were trying to force it to work. "I was..I was jealous," Guinevere muttered almost too softly for Alya to hear. 

She stared at her, bewildered. "Did you say _'jealous?'"_

"If you did something good or bad, you always got their attention. From my parents, from grandma and grandpa. You didn't _have_ to do any of this," Guinevere gestured around them. She squared her shoulders, eyes hard as sapphires. "But I do." 

Alya attended her fair share of these lavish dinner parties and galas when she was younger. She’d learnt not to misbehave, or the consequences of doing so would be facing her grandmother’s wrath. A choice of; no dinner, a smack on the wrist, or playing piano under her fingers were bloody and numb. Purebloods loved the archaic practice of finding suitors for their maiden daughters at these events. Besides a few sly remarks, people were cordial with her because she was a Slytherin and from a wealthy family. But no one had shown remote interest in courting her since her place on the inheritance ladder was nonexistent. Once she realized this at the tender age of fourteen, it was the first time she’d ever been jealous of her beautiful cousin with her legitimacy, golden hair, fair skin, and angelic face. Throughout the centuries Muggles dedicated cathedrals, priceless paintings of women whom looked just like Guinevere. Alya had to see it everywhere she travelled, a constant reminder that she even looked like an outcast standing next to her family.

But Guinevere admitted that _she_ was jealous of _her._ How the tables have turned. Alya shook her head. "You don't have anything to be jealous of, cuz. You're beautiful, and you don't need them." 

“Alya I don't want to listen to another righteous, rebellious argument," she sighed. "I just-I just hoped that we could be on the same page for once. Grandmother wanted us to get along,” said Guinevere, soberly. “It was what she wanted for us before she passed. Since you abruptly left you haven’t been reintroduced into the society. Such appearances are vital to the family and to me. I hope you can understand that." 

Alya snorted, Guinevere shot her a look as the solemnness on her face shifted to annoyance.

“I’ve been home for ages and you’re only nice to me now?”

She crossed her arms, darted her glance away. It was closest thing to humble as she could get. “I know I could have been more... welcoming. I'm sorry. I'm not daft in thinking we're going to hug and reconcile immediately." 

Guinevere apologising, this is new. Alya chuckled, her initial anger a distant memory. Perhaps all the Moore's were shite at apologising, which was why Riddle didn't want to entertain hers. 

“It’s her portrait isn’t it? Talking to you? Getting in your head.”

“Yes. It’s annoying! Your _silencio_ charm wore off. Honestly I had no idea there was anything wrong with the back of my head until that cursed painting brought it up.” She worriedly ran her fingers through her golden tresses.

“You do have a bit of a bald patch.”

Guinevere scowled. Alya laughed some more. “Bitch,” she muttered, but smirked nonetheless. Alya smiled. She should have known her familial obligations would start rolling in the moment she passed the wards of the manor. Alya knew she was privileged. Despite the scandal of her existence, her ‘pureblood’ name would inevitably make things easy for her. It had gotten her and her mother work contracts, and vital contacts across the globe. She would always be a step above Muggle-borns, would always be granted second chances and the benefit of the doubt. Guinevere wasn’t asking for much, and a change of scenery and pace would do her good.

“Alright then,” Alya conceded. “For you.”

Guinevere raised a warning finger at her. “Promise me you won’t embarrass me with any of your antics."

“What antics?” She asked with mock innocence.

Guinevere gave her a deadpan look, then raised a hand and counted it off with each finger;

“Christmas second year.”

Alya cocked her head, closing her eyes in memory, and grimaced. “I see your point-”

Another finger went down. “My fourteenth birthday party?”

“Ah yes,I never apologized about that cake—“

“The Charity gala? Fourth year?”

“But that was hilarious!”

Guinevere folded her arms even tighter, an impatient tap of her foot. Alya laughed.

“Hm, you’ve made your case,” she tapped her wand to her chin, as if in deep thought. “You’re asking a lot there, but fine.”

“Perfect.” Pleased with herself, and with a toss of golden hair over a shoulder, Guinevere charged ahead of her to the manor. “Thank god fashion has never been a problem for you or else we'd have that to worry about too." 

. . . 

In the refineries of the pureblood life, her chipped nails and callused palms, reminded her of the grittier side of her. Now they were immaculately polished and French manicured. She liked it. Her thick wavy hair was tamed and pinned to the nape of her neck with a diamond serpent pin. Her red lipstick matched her dress; a backless, silk number. She completed the look with black stilettos, the heels so pointy she could stab an eye out with them. She waited by the fireplace of their grandfather’s unused study.

Tonight was either a great idea or an incredibly stupid one.

Her cousin swept in, fair and lovely in a mint green dress with tiers and floral embroidery over the fluttery sleeves. Perfect for an evening in the South of France. Bagder went into the fireplace first carrying a crate of Firewhiskey bottles to gift the Lestrange's. He would announce their arrival.

“I forgot to ask, how was your date with Rosier?”

“He was nice,” she treading carefully. “And I haven’t changed my mind about him.”

“Nor have I.” Alya wondered if Rosier or his brother ever brought her up with her cousin. Apparently not. Or Guinevere didn’t want to dampen her good mood with past grievances. 

She offered her cousin the ceramic bowl of Floo powder, but she paused. “They’ll ask a lot of questions, naturally. So don’t be put of,” Guinevere cautioned. “You’re this shiny new thing they’re curious about.”

“Perfect,” Alya said wryly. But she used to being the center of unwanted attention. _Like a curiosity in a travelling circus._ She could handle a few prying questions.

“Oh come on. When have you ever shrunk away from what anyone said about you?” Guinevere said and not unkindly. She almost reached for the powder, but then paused to double check. “But...you’ll be nice. Right?”

"Save for a few _tame_ pranks, yes" she smirked. Guinevere frowned at her disapprovingly, "I've always been a lady," Alya assured her. “Do you know who else is going?”

"Besides the names worth mentioning? No." She arched a brow at her, teasing. “Why are you asking me again? I thought you loved spontaneity."

Alya had incorrectly presumed the rest of the guest list might have come to her cousin’s knowledge, with a specific name in mind. It hadn't. _God you are not subtle, Alya._ She smirked mischievously to hide it her prying. “No reason, I just don’t want to have hex anyone tonight.”

“Alya—”

“I’m kidding.” She patted her arm reassuringly. “I won’t. I won’t. I promise. I’ll be nice,” she smiled with her teeth. Guinevere would simply have to trust her. "Everything will go smoothly. Same page remember?"

Alya went first into the fireplace. “Chateau Armadine.”

The difference between the manor’s gothic interiors to the light, French elegance of the Lestrange manor was startling. It was more of a castle. The interiors were bright with pastel and light gold furniture. It had rustic touches with stag heads and brass chandeliers. High vaulted ceilings of smooth pale stone were decorated with floor length tapestries of hunting and forestry. The floors were white marble, buffed to gleaming perfection until she could see her reflection in them. Winter hadn’t struck the South of France like it did the British Isles, lush bouquets of pink peonies, sunflowers and wild roses dotted on various tabletops throughout.

Two girls saw them first as they emerged from the powder room. Both of them in gowns glittering with intricate beads and gems. Alya felt wholly underdressed in comparison as they approached. “Guinevere!” Exclaimed Louisa Choubert. She had curly auburn hair that shone like firelight, and wore long diamonds earrings that brushed her shoulders. Her eyes widened at Alya like she'd prung two heads.

“Alya, how-how unexpected! You look great.”

Her jaw unhinged, and smoothly went to work; “Thanks Louisa. You too!” She gushed brightly, as if they were old friends, throwing compliments back and forth. "I love your earrings." 

"Your heels are so tall. How do you walk in them?" 

"A lot of practice, but my feet will be killing me by the end of the night." 

At least Choubert tried. Alessa Oakheart greeted her cousin amiably, but her expression wilted when it came to Alya, regarding her with a barely concealed look of disdain. Besides the ugly reception, she couldn’t recall the specifics of why she didn’t like her. “Alya Moore is that _you?”_ Oakheart exclaimed with an exaggerated gasp of disbelief. “What happened to the gawky girl with the frizzy black hair?”

She remembered then. _Alessa_ _was—is a bitch and resident gossip._ She saw her cousin over Alessa's head giving her a ‘don’t you dare’ look.

“In the flesh,” alya half-shrugged, chewing the inside of her cheek. Maintaining that good-natured smile throughout the evening should win her awards.

“Romulus. The Moore’s are here!” Announced Louisa as the cousins followed them into the drawing room, three pairs of heels clacking on the marble.

“Moore’s? Plural?” A voice called from French doors thrown open to a lush garden with topiary. Romulus Lestrange strolled inside and stopped as if he’d crashed into a wall the moment his eyes landed on her. “I must apologize, for my terrible manners, I should have been there to welcome you first.”

“Oh don't look so worried Romulus. We’re just happy to be here,” replied Guinevere gracefully, even though she probably reproached Lestrange internally. “The chateau is stunning!”

He turned to her. Riddle could yield his signature-dashing smile, but she had hers. Alya’s eyes were soft, blinking slowly up at him. Her warm smile making him believe he was the only person she wanted to see tonight. “Alya Moore. A pleasure."

“Romulus Lestrange,” the handshake was clammy and he looked a bit worried to greet her. She found out why a moment later; “I know who you are. You put two-dozen toads in my cauldron when I was in first year.”

Her gaze widened. For the life of her Alya could not remember ever doing that, but it sounded like something she would do. She snickered. “Ah I see, well I suppose I’ll Floo myself out of here before you can avenge your cauldron and put toads in my soup."

Romulus beamed and chuckled in relief. He had rounded features, light brown hair and friendly manner about him. “Nonsense. You’re forgiven. That was one of the tamer pranks I experienced.”

She flourished her hand and the crate of Firewhiskey from the Moore distilleries materialised. The golden Kelpie emblem shone proudly back at them. “Please accept a crate of Moore Firewhiskey as an apology,” her smile widened and his cheeks went pink. “This castle is absolutely enchanting.”

“Thank you for the Firewhiskey,” he ushered a house-elf to take them away. “Castle renovations were complete two weeks ago, any compliments about decor would have tto be directed at my mother. Dinner will be served shortly.” He extended his arm out like a gracious host. It was rare to encounter a humble pureblood prince. Normally guests would be led by the family house-elves.

Bushels of lavender in crystal vases were arranged tastefully over the dining table. Points of silverware winked beneath the light of the massive crystal chandelier. Glasses filled themselves, the goblets engraved with Lestrange sigil of a crow. Everyone was dressed impeccably, men in resplendent wizard robes and expensive cologne which made her dizzy; witches wore gowns of rich fabric, perfect makeup, and professionally styled hair.

A bit nervous, and very conscious that she was a relatively fresh face to the scene, Alya willed her reservations aside. This was another challenge she would overcome. She would not return as an angst filled teenager but a fully actualized witch. She gathered a decades worth of conversation cues, etiquette classes to make small talk. She met Lestrange’s mother Fortuna, whom had black hair streaked with silver and his brown eyes. The task of greeting the hostess went smoothly. She found it was easier to be herself now that she didn’t have her grandmother breathing down her back to ensure her every moment was poised and correct.

Alya hoped the rest of the evening would follow the same trend.

The tallest man in the room with cropped blonde hair, burly shoulders, greeted her cousin enthusiastically with a long kiss on the hand, making her blue eyes pop at his shamelessness. His sleeves were bursting with the muscle of biceps that could snap a tree trunk in half. His attentions landed on Alya, his eyebrows rising with delighted surprise.

“If it isn’t the famed curse-breaker.” He fluidly took her hand and kissed it too. Apparently Riddle wasn’t the only man who had that move in his arsenal. She noted his absence as this party far too keenly for her own good.

“Ulric Mulciber.”

“Alya Moore, pleasure.”

His blue eyes trained on hers as he shook her hand. “I’ve read several of your pieces in _Runic Monthly_ I knew of your intelligence beforehand, but I was ill-prepared to be acquainted with your beauty.”

_Shameless flirt._ Alya found it amusing that he couldn’t wait to get that one out before the appetisers. She smiled at him thinly. “Perhaps you can tell me which of the articles in Runic Monthly were your favourite after dinner," she replied, graciously. 

“It’s unfortunate that we will not be seated beside one another,” he indicated to the place cards with a small pout, she was probably supposed to find cute. She was in-between Romulus and Guinevere.

“We have the rest of the evening don’t we?”

His eyes lit again. Ulric gave her a charming half-smile and helped her into her seat before seating himself at the other end of the long table. 

It was funny and totally predictable how the appetites of men changed. Alya was like newly minted gold to them. Sparkling, unfamiliar, rich and intriguing compared to the tedious parade of pureblood witches they’d known their entire lives. Someone like Mulciber wouldn’t have given her a second look when she was a smart-ass, ‘frizzy-haired gawky teenager.’ Now he was eager to chase the possibility of sleeping with her.

The dishes materialized on their plates in a total of six courses. The rich aromas of herbs and spiced meats filled the room. All the fruits and vegetables served were harvested from the Lestrange estate farms that expanded beyond the castles walls. Each bite was fresh and crisp. Grilled salmon was served, then a palate cleanser of lemon sorbet. The second main course was stuffed lamb chops, and finally desert of fruit tarts and berries served with champagne.

Romulus was pleasant company. They exchanged anecdotes about Paris, their favourite artists and galleries. He looked at her warmly throughout dinner, leaning close to her whenever she had a joke to whisper into his ear. Every time he laughed at one of her quips Ulric's jealously was palpable across the room. 

Afterwards the guests dispersed to the drawing room or to the well-lit porch outside to bask in the magically warmed air of the gardens. There were people lounging on the duck egg blue couches of the drawing room. That was where Romulus led them. The tall French windows gave a spectacular view of the rolling lavender fields that spread out to touch the horizon, pale blue in the moonlight.

Guinevere touched her elbow when they were out of earshot of anyone else to whisper; "Dear old Romulus seems quite taken with you." 

"It's my irresistible charm," Alya smirked. 

"You could do a lot worse you know. He's single." 

Alya stiffened but smiled at her nonetheless. "He's not my type." 

"And what is your type? _Mulciber?_ He was slobbering all over my hand," she scrunched her nose. Alya snickered. "There are plenty of women after him. Alessa included." 

"Not my type either, trust me." 

Her cousin gave her a bemused look but said nothing.

The instant she wasn’t seated next to Romulus, Ulric happily took a seat beside her on the couch, peeling himself away from Alessa Oakheart. “What does Ms. Alya Moore drink?” 

Alya saw Alessa fuming behind Ulric during this exchange. She would be lying if she denied enjoying her reaction a little. “Firewhiskey.”

"Red wine for me," chimed Guinevere. 

“Winky!” Romulus called and a house-elf popped into the room.

“Yes Master Romulus!

“Fetch these ladies their drinks.”

"Right away, Master Romulus." 

The Firewhiskey tasted of smoked cedar, and oranges. It burned down her throat. The group exchanged a few pleasantries about Ireland and London. Romulus was chatting to Guinevere and Louisa but his gaze kept flitting her. When she caught him, he went red. Ulric piped up, straightening with interest at her.

“I heard you were in Greece last?” He asked.

Alya licked her lips, hesitating. She had been there with her mother a couple of months ago. _Chasing manticores._ The unfamiliar crowd, and the swaths of attention she was getting reminded her it was not the place or time for those memories. “Yes I was. Have you been?”

"I have travelled to Athens once on behalf of the ministry, for a diplomatic visit.”

“He was posted there for a week with that Muggle-born swot, Richards,” Alessa butted in, seated across from them.

“It was most peculiar watching them use ‘telephones’ to communicate with one another,” Ulric agreed with a wry grin, sipping his drink.

“I was mostly on the islands. The summers are the best time to go," said Alya. "Ithaca has stunning hidden coves. Santorini can’t be missed, but there are a lot of lesser-known islands that are worth exploring.”

“I’ve always wanted to holiday there,” exclaimed Louisa, whom was cozied next to her fiancée, Evander Travers. It explained her cream dress, almost as if she were screaming to everyone that she was a bride-to-be. “We can go there for our honeymoon.”

Evander held her chin between his fingers, gazing at her dotingly. “Anything you want, sweetheart.”

“Ugh you two,” complained Guinevere, scrunching up her nose. “Please, not in front of everyone. You’ll make me vomit all six courses." 

“You’ll be eating your words when you’re engaged to Rosier,” countered Louisa with a giggle. Her cousin blushed and everyone laughed at her expense. Guinevere drank to mask her discomfort. It was odd, Alya always imagined her cousin to be the confident center of attention at these.

Romulus leaned forward in her direction. “Is it true that a Centaur gave you a lift on it’s back?”

“I may or may not have trespassed over Centaur territory in Greece but I was on a normal horse, outrunning them," said Alya.

Ulric chortled. “What on earth possessed you to do that?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” she smiled enigmatically. “It was a dare.”

“And did you win?” He asked, eyes glinting playfully at her.

She winked at him. “What do you think?” His gaze swept over face and cleavage, then took a sip of his drink pleased with what he saw. _Men._

“A sober-Alya would not condone such disrespectful behavior to the Centaurs,” she said at length. “My mother and I were excavating a small temple near their lands. I made sure to apologise and get out of there. Such a slight could have easily caused an uproar in-"

Louisa extricated herself from her fiancé, turning her nose up as if she’d smelt something foul. “Centaur’s are disrespectful creatures. But what do you expect? All half-beasts are downright savages. My family’s castle is one of the lands being disputed in the Scotland treaty,” she spoke heatedly. "My father means to open another cauldron factory there. A vital commodity for our wizard-kind. Centaurs roam in hoards of fifty, they can't possibly need that much land. It's ridiculous."

Alya bit the inside of her cheek willing herself not argue. And the night was going so well to begin with. 

“Oh this again,” Ulric rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “For once can we not get political at one of these?"

“Ulric if it was you, you would say the exact same thing,” Louisa reproached.

“God is that the time? Excuse me.” Romulus hopped up; looking harried and disappeared off to the foyer without an explanation.

“Guinevere is your father all right? Didn’t a beast shoot an arrow at him?” Asked Alessa, eyes wide with horror.

“They did. But he’s fine,” assured Guinevere, swirling her wine. “He’s got very spry reflexes for his age. Mother almost passed out when she heard.” It shouldn’t have amused Alya; the image of her uncle hopping from foot to foot to dodge a Centaur arrow, but it did. She kept her musings to herself, this crowd would not appreciate them. 

“Your father is merely trying to do his job,” said Evander solemnly.

Louisa beamed at her fiancé, her hand intertwining with his. “Exactly! They should let him do his job!”

Alya knew all of this was passive aggressively targeted at her. Her nostrils flared and irritation bounced in her chest. _Hold your tongue, Alya_.

"You’ve intrigued us,” Ulric re-directed, leaning a bit closer to her. “I heard the Irish are the best storytellers. I think we’re in for a treat. We need more drinks.” He clapped his hands. The house-elf reappeared, pushing a cart twice his height topped with ornate glass decanters filled with an assortment of liquors.

The others seemed bored in the background as Alya recounted her party-worthy tales. Louisa and Evander were immersed in one another. Perhaps pureblood marriages weren’t solely loveless young couples bound to one another by duty. When they shared a quick kiss Alya wanted to groan; _God get a room_. She finished the centaur story, and then dived into a lengthy tale about excavation and curse breaking in Mexico. Ulric eyes were glazed over, watching, but not listening. He was simply very good at humming and nodding when it sounded appropriate too. She loathed it. Why was she wasting her time and breathe on someone who didn't want to hear what she had to say? 

“Impressive,” said Ulric on cue, pouring himself another drink. She had hardly gotten to hers with all the talking she’d done. “A list of skill as long as my arm. Next you’re going to tell me you play in an orchestra.”

“I played piano. My grandmother— “

“Oh look who it is!” Louise settled her glass down, standing with arms outstretched gleefully. “Tom!”

* * *


	7. Temptations

**_ALYA_ **

Her blood curdled. Her pulse pounded as if her heart and plopped out into her palms. Everyone shot out of their seats. Ulric ripped his stare away from her as if she were Medusa. He looked as if he were about to sombrely address the Wizengemot. He then plastered on a smile. She saw that Travers reacted the same before smothering it too. Alya was the only one left seated, her palms clammy and breathing unsteady. She felt his stare first, tattooing over her spine. Darkness hummed over her skin. She glanced over her shoulder.

Tom greeted Guinevere with a kiss on the hand. “You look lovely, it’s nice to see you again.” He wore black dress robes, classy, simple. He could wear a potato sack and look good. He belonged. Effortlessly. Either he hadn’t seen her or he deliberately did not want to look at her to irritate her. 

And it did.

The alcohol was warm and rushing to her head, churning her emotions even more. The women flew to Tom like flies to a pot of honey. Surely Evander would mind that his fiancé was gushing over another man?

If Evander was jealous, there was not a trace of it on his trained poker face as he flanked Riddle. A fleeting, horrid notion crossed her mind; that Guinevere would be enraptured, become infatuated with Tom. Then demand her father let her marry him instead of Rosier. Alya didn’t know what choice was worst.

A man with narrow nose, angular chin and icy blonde hair followed him. The Malfoy heir. He was a few years older than everyone else. “Abraxas!” Called Alessa happily. Romulus returned at the tail of the group. Was that why he anxiously left? He was waiting for Riddle and Malfoy to arrive the entire time?

The small crowd around Riddle made her realize how silly she had been: How could she have believed the hierarchy would change once she left Hogwarts?

They were gathered around him, hanging onto his every word. Ulric and Evander waiting for his approval when he wasn’t speaking to them. They were older now, more open-minded... to an extent— but their fundamental beliefs, their habits, were the same. Their society revolved around one thing; power. Power was what the pureblood families had within their elite little circle, and they would do anything to keep it. 

Something about Riddle made him exude this power, thus they flocked to him.

Alya just didn’t know what it was.

But she wanted to find out.

In typical fashion, was Alya off to the side. An outcast, with her ‘borrowed’ family name simply because a few vows between her parents weren't uttered and paperwork hadn't been signed. Watching them, she was transported to the Slytherin common room, where Riddle would hold court like a solemn King, gathered on the black leather couches they practically owned. She always wondered what they were discussing in hushed tones and snickers, whilst Riddle maintained a strange implacable authority over the rest. It was the same boys from the common room that were standing stalwart by him now, minus a few others not in attendance. There were no girls in his inner circle. The ones fawning over Riddle didn’t count. _Some people never change, do they?_

“I apologize for missing dinner,” said Tom, his velvety smooth voice swept over to her. She finally stood and approached slowly. Riddle was not the tallest, his build was nowhere as broad as Ulric’s, but the way he held himself; aristocratic, princely, outshone the other men in the room.

“I’m glad you could be here nonetheless,” said Romulus nodding to Tom, who still wouldn’t look at her. _How dare he, after how he treated me at the shop?_ Maybe it was for the best. She had imagined plenty of words to sneer at him –she liked to imagine they had a stalemate at Borgin and Burkes—but couldn’t string any together when all she wanted to do was claw at his face. She pressed her mouth close and waited for the right moment. Alya introduced herself to Abraxas. Ulric saw her, his seriousness faded momentarily, sliding a handsome smile on. “Tom, have you met Ms. Alya Moore?”

Dark brown irises that were almost midnight black shifted to hers. Her chin was up. Steady and determined. He glided to her with the grace of a panther. Several emotions passed over his features. The surprise was definitely there with a slight quirk of his brow, but that square jaw that belonged to a Greek adonis was tighter. The icy blankness in his depthless eyes rattled through her bones like an Artic wind. She stared at him unflinchingly, smiling.

“We have.” They said simultaneously after what could have been a few seconds or a century later. His hand suddenly clutched hers, gentle and courteous. He kissed it softly liked he did the first night they met, stealing the breath from her lungs.

“At her grandmother’s wake.” His smile was disarmingly beautiful and calculated. "I had an excellent time in Ireland. Alya was a lovely tour guide. I wish I could have stayed longer. That stunning little island connected to land with a rope bridge, it is a sight I treasure dearly." 

Something sang within her heart at that. The sea serpent. The gift. He remembered.

If she didn’t know any better, it made sense why they adored him. He could make you feel like you were friends, with a history, secrets. A special smile reserved just for you. Alya forced a smile in return, the ghost of the kiss burnt like acid on the thin skin of her knuckles.

“I’m pleased to hear that.” 

Except he didn’t want to be friends. Or specifically he didn’t want to be friends with _her._ How unfair. That she could both have and not have him. 

“Oh Tom it’s been months since we last saw you,” Alessa wound her arm through his elbow, gazing up at him like he was a prize to be won, tugging him away from her. Whatever jealously she held towards Alya for hoarding Ulric was diminished. “They must be keeping you awfully busy at Borgin and Burkes.” They wandered back to the couches. “My father has a position open in the Ministry in his department, you must consider it,” Guinevere insisted as Riddle seated himself next to Romulus after skilfully patting and removing Alessa's hand. Waves of disappointed radiated from her to be parted from him. “You made such a good impression to him. He speaks so highly of you.”

_Stay away from him, cuz!_ She wanted to scream. Something came over her, twisting her stomach into knots. She could scarcely keep a scowl off her face. Part of it must be the drink loosening her tongue; part of it was her cousin batting her eyelashes at Riddle, proof that he was the most desirable man in the room, and how Alya had last left his presence both flustered and seething.

“I could definitely see Tom negotiating with Centaurs to give up their prized lands,” Alya piped up, her manicured nails clutching her glass. His gaze found hers at the sound of her voice. _As_ _it should._ She never used his first name before, and they were not on first name basis. Her eyes were innocently wide and earnest. “You always know exactly what to say. You have such a clever mouth.”

The double meaning had Ulric Mulciber choking on his drink. Louisa Travers blushed, whilst the other ladies looked confused. _So cloistered._

Riddle’s mask slipped almost imperceptibly. He controlled his reaction. The hostile tension hummed in the seven feet that separated them. The corners of his lips twitched as if he wanted to sneer _how dare you._

But Riddle was not Romulus, blushing and easily humoured by her. He was not Ulric whom wanted to flatter and win her. 

“You’re too kind, Ms. Moore.” Riddle said calmly, then turned to address her cousin. “Guinevere, please tell your father that I’m flattered that he should think so highly of me, but I must humbly decline. But I hope the treaty with the Centaur is resolved soon. We could do with peace in the lands between the wizard and the half-beasts." He shared a look with Louisa whom nodded appraisingly as if _finally_ someone was listening to her.

It wasn’t lost on her that he was still addressing her formally. _M_ _y fault for that._

Riddle never looked at her again afterwards. Not a word spoken between them. He sat on the couch, debonair, owning the room, without a care in the world. Her gaze flitted to him more than once and she wanted to smack herself every time. The others yammered away for a bit until Ulric-having lost interest in her entirely-suggested that Romulus ought to introduce them to this or that wizarding patriach. Naturally Riddle joined them. They moved like a wolf pack to the porch. Evander urged Louisa to accompany him on the social rounds. She was an obliging trophy on his arm. This left Alya with her cousin and Alessa, the pair continued chatting about old acquaintances.

Alya remained quiet and fuming. _I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have come here._ He’d hardly been here for more than twenty minutes and he was already ignoring her? She would have the last word. She had to.

Guinevere excused herself to the bathroom. Alessa plopped down beside Alya now that they were alone. Her entire left side bristled. Oakheart's smile was deceptively kind. "You really ought to learn how to be more subtle." 

"What?"

Oakheart lowered her voice. She was so close and was blasted with her pungent perfume. "Lestrange is too innocent for his own good and Mulciber will fuck anything that moves, unsurprising reaction with that dress you're in." She darted a disdainful glance down her body. Alessa's red nails dug into her forearm and Alya nearly chucked her drink in her face. "But Tom. He's never been like them. He's different. He's better. You _look_ at him, like you want to cast a love spell on him just to get a morsel of his attention," she tisked. "It's embarrassing." 

Rage clawed up her throat. Alessa Oakheart was calling her a slut _and_ desperate? If she had to listen to this for one more second, she would chew her head off. "And _none_ of them look at you," she snapped and wrenched her arm free. "Understandable, since you share features in common with a pug." She stood. Heat burned through her face and vision. "Touch me again and I'll make you regret it." 

Alessa gaped as if she'd been slapped, too thrown to form a response. Alya gathered her dress and spun away before she did something she would regret. _Cool off, clear your head,_ her grandmother would say. It was the first sensible idea she had in a long while.

_‘That unchecked anger within you, my love. It frightens me. I’m afraid of you.’_

God why was she thinking about her mother now?

Did she just threaten Oakheart over a _boy?_ Merlin, maybe Alessa was right. She _should_ be embarrassed. It was be best for her to avoid Alessa _and_ Riddle entirely- which she should have done ages ago. _It's not your fault he decided to attend._

_But it_ is _your fault that a tiny part of your wanted him to come,_ whispered a demon on her shoulder. 

She found the music room tucked along one of the many halls of the castle. Thick green and gold curtain hung from the windows. The four walls were hand painted with scenery of creeping vines, apple blossoms, and colorful birds. A harp and a violin stood in opposite corners, but only the black grand piano in the center was of any interest to her. Playing helped to calm her, dampen her frustration down to a mild irritation like swatting a pesky mosquito. She could not waste her energy on hating Riddle, she mustn’t. He wasn’t worth all of this.

* * *

**_TOM_ **

Ulric Mulciber was a few inches taller than him, but he looked very small retreating into the alcove, trying to put as much distance between his chest and Tom’s lit wand.

“Don’t waste my time again,” Tom hissed at him through bared teeth, darkness swirling in his vision. Ulric audibly swallowed and nodded dutifully. There was a curse that created tight barbwires to spring around victims, digging into their skin, until they wept bleed from half a hundred wounds. He wanted to practice it. He considered subjecting Mulciber to it.

“I need a candidate to replace the Daily Prophet editor-in-chief. _Now,”_ he growled, keeping his voice as low as possible. They were within Lestrange’s library but he didn’t dare yell or cast torture curses on his followers with so many dignitaries within feet of the locked doors. “Do not report back to me unless you’ve found one,” he lowered his wand, but didn’t pocket it.

“Y-yes, my lord,” muttered Ulric, mustering the courage to keep a steady gaze on Tom’s, but he knew if he made to lunge that Ulric would flinch. “Yes, my lord,” Romulus echoed behind him. He glanced between the two men loathingly. _Undeserving pureblood princes_. With a clenched jaw, he stalked out of the room leaving them behind.

Tom had two scars on his chest, thin, straight and barely visible, etched in two vertical dashes like tally marks. They appeared after he made his horcruxes. It was not an imperfection to him for he was not vain like the others of his house. They often reminded him of the unique, powerful, dark magic he’d discovered. But other times, a phantom tearing pain would erupt from them, leaving him wincing and restless. Aching for some kind of release. The wildness in his torn soul howled and his mind was a riot. Perhaps he should have cursed Ulric...

Faint piano music drifted to him. He stopped and peered down a hallway off from the main one. Logic told him to leave it and continue to the drawing room, but instinct told him to pocket his wand and follow and find the source.

When he did, a small part of him regretted his discovery.

The rest of him didn’t. She had the audacity to address him directly at the couches, making assumptions on his character she had _no_ right to, trying to annoy and bait him. But he wasn't about to growl at her in front of the others, ruin his painstakingly crafted facade, as tempting as it was.

_A Dance of Dragons_ was the piece she played. A popular Romanian folk song of the wizarding world. Spry, quick, and bold. He could envision two of the beasts, dropping through the air, claws hooked, trying to tear at the other’s long serpentine neck. The red dress made her golden brown skin glow. It was also daringly backless. Tom watched the muscles of her back and shoulder blades bunch and move as her arms tried to maintain the fast pace of the song. He imagined running his finger down the length of her spine. He could practically hear her catch her breathe and shiver beneath him, if he did as he wanted. _Would it break her concentration? Make her miss a note?_

Alya stopped. Hands frozen. Unfinished chords ringing in the air. The bench creaked. She glanced over a shoulder to him. “Why is it that when I turn around you’re always there?” She said with an impertinent sideways smile.

_Fuck it_. He was immortal but he was still a young man.

Tom leaned off the side of the door and ventured in. “So she speaks,” he stopped at the corner of the piano. “You’ve hardly said a word since I arrived.”

“You seemed to be more interested in the old men in the room.”

“You were never far from my mind.”

"Hm. I can't say the same." Alya didn’t blush. She didn't leave either, to his delight. She refocused on the piano, playing an easy lullaby, blatantly ignoring him. 

It was refreshing to be challenged, if not entirely frustrating. “For someone who finds pureblood society so detestable I’m surprised you’re here.”

“A favour to my cousin. Not that that’s any of your business." She gave him a pointed look. "Why are you bothering to speak with me, Mr. Riddle?” _It's Mr. Riddle again? What happened to 'Tom?' Too familiar?_ He thought bitterly. He watched as she angled her shoulders to play at a higher octave, a diamond necklace met at the center of her collarbones, there was a tiny birthmark below the right side.

“At the shop I was under the impression that you found every word from my mouth to be lies. What would be the point of wasting your breath?” She shot out. 

She held nothing back now. _Good._

“Now that’s just not true,” he smiled at her. “I willingly followed you to the outskirts of the Moorlands to witness the migration of a sea serpent. When it seemed like you wanted to leave me there for food.”

“That was a joke. I am not as cruel as you, Mr. Riddle. I would never do that.”

His stomach twisted with frustration, but only his brow quirked up. His muted reaction garnered from years of practice training his reactions. No one in his entire life called him cruel to his face. They didn’t dare to, or he’d fooled them enough to believe he could be nothing but a saint. “You think I’m cruel?” He asked nonchalantly, inching a bit closer.

She tilted her head a little to observe him. “All right. Cold, perhaps, and difficult to impress. But not cruel.”

He smirked, his blood rushing faster and faster. “Is that what you want, Ms. Moore? To impress me?”

Her tongue flicked against an incisor, eyes narrowed. “Take your pride done a peg, maybe.”

“You’re wrong, Ms. Moore,” said Tom. “I never do things unintentionally; certainly not waste my breath on someone if I didn’t think they had anything worthy to say.”

It was the truth.

He surprised himself with that statement. But he didn’t have the chance to parse it out as Alya stopped playing all together.

“Good for you,” she went, tight-lipped, and withdrew her hands. “I should—“

“Don't stop.”

Alya stiffened, peering at him, the steel in her gaze glinted with curiosity. He was at a loss of words. He could compliment her on her skill, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that her playing was soothing—

_Soothing?_

“It would be shame to stop such beautiful music in the middle of a piece, wouldn’t it?” Tom offered instead, with a half-smile. 

“There’s no one else here. We clearly can’t stand one another so why are you pretending to be cordial with me?”

She was right. He had no reason to continue this farce. But it wasn’t a farce. Not to him. He hated that she defied him. But more than that that, he hated that she’d called him cruel. Tom made poor judgment with his anger at Borgin and Burkes. She would not relent easily now.

“I’m not pretending,” said Tom, shoving aside his ego enough to allow this. “You’ve...surprised me at every turn. It’s very disarming for someone like me.” His throat was drier than a desert. As much as he wanted it to be a lie, it wasn't. The raw honesty of the moment made a space beneath his left rib ache.

“Disarming?” She mumbled, a bit stunned.

“I was unfair to you." 

She stared at him for a long moment. “Is this... an apology?”

He thought on it. His eyes snagged on hers, held it intently. “Yes.”

Her brows furrowed, lips pressed together in rumination. He could see the ashes stirring. The part of her that was whole and good wanted to believe him.

Alya thawed, shoulders relaxing. She believed him, _and my 'clever mouth',_ he thought triumphantly. She smiled at him. A true smile. It lit every facet of her face. A dimple in her cheek formed that he found utterly bewitching.

He trained his expression to remain neutral. Her fingers glided over the keys, filling the room with a sweet, melancholic tune. Tentatively, Tom sat down beside her on the bench. She allowed it. Even wiggled a bit to give him room. It comfortably fit two, but their arms were lightly touching. Any more movement from the other person, and one of them would fall off. Her warmth permeated through his dress robes. There was a serpent pin in her hair, securing the style to the base of her neck and swept it across one shoulder. One tug and he could watch the raven curls unwind and tumble over her smooth skin-

_Stop._ He needed to distract himself. “Is this your favourite composer?"

“It is. Are you fond of him?" 

“I am. It's Claude Debussy.”

“He’s a Muggle composer, but you already knew that. I won’t tell if you won’t,” she said with a conspiratorial wink as if they shared a little secret between them. “You have good taste.”

It was the first time he was glad to know something he'd learnt in that filthy Muggle orphanage. "I know,” he smirked smugly, and surprisingly she returned that smile. “It’s a sad piece.”

“Slowed down, yes. That's how I prefer it. That's the wondrous thing about music, the difference of half a heartbeat can change the song entirely and how you feel when you listen to it." She closed her eyes, lips parted to savor the sound.

Tom made that face when he tasted chocolate for the first time. Treasures wrapped in jewel-toned foil he stole from the other orphans. His mouth had chewed slowly. Melting the tiny cool square bar into a warm, creamy, decadent sweetness on his tongue. It tasted so good. It was the only time he'd ever wanted to cry. He didn't. But it took all his willpower not to devour his entire stash that night. They were as precious to him as his horcruxes were, once upon a time.

Alya opened her eyes, only to see that he was openly staring at her. Her cheeks went scarlet. “I think it’s hopeful....” she blinked, staring at the keys, worrying her bottom lip and abruptly stopped. “Sorry I-I messed up the chords.”

Tom hadn’t even been listening to a single note. He shrugged. “I don’t play an instrument. I wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Not even...?”

He remained silent. That distant look in her eyes... was it pity? Empathy? More weapons to poison to his mind...

“To start it’s easy. Five fingers on each hand.” Before he could follow her meaning, her thumb and index encircled his right wrist in his lap. She took it and rested it on the keys. They were dainty fingers, delicate and considerate.

_An excuse to touch me?_

Tom thought he would seize up like he did when Alessa Oakheart yanked him to and fro, but he didn’t mind being led in this instance. Her genuine desire to show him was endearing. He could flagellate himself with self-hatred later. If she wanted to use her closeness, softness and other feminine graces to flirt with him-he saw no fault in enjoying them for a bit and her undivided attention.

She counted them out as if he were a toddler. “Yes I can count to five, I’m not an infant,” Tom bit out, but instead of a leer it came out like snappy banter.

“All right, just making sure,” Alya giggled. “This is middle C,” she played a white note. “D, E, F, G,” she played the rest in succession singing them out. “Now, you. Follow me.”

He copied the notes she played on a higher octave. Tom moved absentmindedly as his mind worked. He thought he’d figured her out, with how easily she could be read. But he didn’t expect such a gesture to come out of one meager apology. Besides his demonstration of wandlessly removing fog from the beach she had no idea what true power he possessed. Tom could not find any ulterior motive for the reason she was being so generous and thoughtful to him now. For someone who's been studying purebloods for over a decade. It threw him. She had that characteristic pureblood pride, but she did not fit into any of the boxes he'd categorized them into. 

“It seems quite straightforward,” he surmised after a few repetitions.

“Oh really?” She exhaled a laugh. “Everything just comes so easy to you, does it?”

“It’s a well known trait of mine.”

Alya rolled her eyes and laughed. Pure delight and honey. No malice, no artificial warmth. “You’re playing ‘Mary Had A Little Lamb’ and suddenly you think you’re a music prodigy?” She laughed even more. It ghosted warmly over his neck. The slit in her dress exposed her leg until the knee, which brushed against the rough fabric of his trousers. “Adding the left hand will spice things a up a bit.”

She reached for his left hand, almost knocking him over with her elbow, and placed them on the keys, but it stayed there. Her small palm splayed across the back of his larger hand. He inhaled her sweet, spiced fragrance. He thought about the stolen chocolates melting in his mouth. Mere inches separated their faces. His attention dropped to her lips, a shade darker than red. A blush glowed from her cheeks to the cowl neckline of her dress that tastefully showed off enticing cleavage. Those emotions he tried to fight tooth and nail were blooming in full-effect within his gut. One was most prominent than the others;

Desire.

The grey of her eyes turned liquid black. Alya swallowed, the V in her neck undulating, begging for him to bend down and kiss it...no, he should start with her lips, make his way down—

It shocked him as if he was drenched in ice-cold water, he wanted to wrench his eyes away-

A throat cleared behind them.

“Tom.”

Both of them jolted a bit and turned, nearly falling off the bench. Romulus Lestrange stood in entryway. Hands behind his back, head tipped down respectfully as if he’d barged in on an intimate moment. Crimson tinged the red of Tom’s vision, _nothing happened you dolt, don’t look so scandalized._ “I’m sorry to interrupt. There was something I needed to discuss with you.”

“I should rejoin the others,” Alya hastily stood and left the room without a second glance. It was cold without her warmth on the bench.

His back was to Romulus. Tom took his sweet time to square his shoulders, crack his neck, and adjust his robes that didn’t need adjusting. It was only a few seconds but the wait was torture to Lestrange. He liked to make the heirs sweat and cower even with just these simple movements. He’s seen the boy’s knees nearly give way before when Tom threatened to _Crucio_ him to make an example of him. He mentally flushed out any thoughts of Alya Moore, but it left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. Like when he gave into temptation and devoured that entire stash of chocolates, until he made himself sick and vomited it all out.

If this was disappointing news he might gather the Knights present, take them to a far off field and curse them to clear his head. He stood and loomed towards Romulus, who straightened attentively yet shrunk at the same time.

“What is it now?”

They waited until the rap of Alya’s heels became more distant. Romulus’ eyes skittered over to her with a flash of longing. His blood boiled. _As if she would ever want to be courted by someone as pathetic as you._ Tom’s fingers itched to grab his wand and hex him.

“Lestrange,” he growled, gnashing his teeth.

He shuddered and bowed his head even lower than before. “My lord.”

* * *

**A/N: the song by Claude Debussy she plays is Clair De Lune, absolutely one of my favs. Check out 'clair de lune' ethereal remix' or 'clair de lune slowed down', on youtube for dreamy fairytale vibes. :)**


	8. The Hum of Darkness

_**ALYA** _

Alya conjured ice cubes into her glass of Firewhiskey and downed the rest of it, blowing out her cheeks. Her skin was hot, but she shouldn’t feel this warm in the dress she was in. _All the effects of Mr. Riddle._

Why had he come to her with that apology? To toy with her? Certainly not to mock as her as she’d suspected. It was the most sincere he’s ever been with her. That wholesome moment between them felt unnatural to be associated with Riddle, yet made perfect sense. _He's trying to fuck with you, Alya. He is._

She’s never played for one person, (her grandmother and governess were not counted). It was incredibly... intimate. _Was that what he wanted? To trick me into a sense of security?_ She brushed her finger over the diamond teardrop at her neck, lost in her racing thoughts.

His forearms were strong and veined, cool beneath her touch. She was certain he could feel her pulse drumming a beat against his. She couldn't care less. The way he looked at her, as if he wanted to peer into her soul and learn its song.

She would have sung it for him if he asked.

If only he’d closed that small distance between them....

Alya came to a simple conclusion: Tom Riddle wanted to be liked. By his professors, by his peers, even by her, someone who not bolster his reputation, whom stayed on the fringes of their exclusive society.

She may have gotten it all wrong. But it was futile to deny that energy buzzed across her skin every time he was close.

Alya almost didn’t notice Guinevere sitting beside her. “Where did you go?”

“I was... distracted by the music room." Alya poured herself another glass of liquid courage. _Courage for what?_

Riddle’s presence was palpable again as he and Romulus returned. Evander’s spine snapped up, while Abraxas gave a small nod to them. She did not dare look at him just yet. What if she sneered at her again? Ignored her? Mocked her for believing his apology so willingly? “What was everyone discussing?” Romulus asked around the room pleasantly. They sat down on a couch. She chanced a glance at Riddle. 

He was already watching her. The flints of his eyes igniting liquid fire within her. As much as she wanted to be in control, her heart was racing. He sat with his ankle on a knee, without a care in the world, impossibly magnetic. Dark hair had fallen across his forehead, the way she liked it. She raised her glass to her lips to quench her thirst.

No one answered Lestrange yet, until Louisa chimed in, rather too brightly for her choice of topic. “I heard from my little sister that Myrtle Warren is haunting the girl’s toilets on the first floor.”

Alya’s hand stopped mid-air, stomach clenching like it did at the taste of rotten food. The memories of that frightful year were nicely blocked off, until little Ms. Choubert decided to blast that dam wide open. Alya didn’t know that Warren was a ghost. There were nasty rumors that the first floor toilet was where she died. _What a horrid end to such a young life._

She looked at Choubert. Her heart began to quicken for reasons that did not involved a certain wizard on the couch adjacent to her. Her demons reared their head to her, smiling, delighting in her mounting rage. _Not now. Please not now._ She was surrounded by purebloods, and _Riddle._

She felt as if she were at the end of a line. Somehow being inadvertently called a _slut_ by Alessa Oakheart was more tolerable than this conversation. There were only two routes out of this. To stamp this out like a fire daemon... or unleash it.

Louisa’s tapped her chin thinking, her engagement ring catching the light. “They’re calling her this nickname I can’t recall what it— “

“It feels... weird having a student be a ghost,” intoned Guinevere solemnly; bringing her shoulders to her ears as if she were cold. Finally, someone with a shred of empathy. She felt a pang of affection for her cousin. 

“Well she was quiet and weird,” remarked Alessa in a dismissive haughty manner. She didn’t think she could despise Oakheart any more than she already did but this was the icing on the cake. It was bad luck to speak ill of the dead. Alya breathed in through her nose and out her mouth and took a sip Firewhiskey, gripping her glass tightly. She couldn’t taste it as it burned down her throat.

When had alcohol ever helped with her anger? Besides being fuel to a flame? _Leave it alone, Alya. They’re always like this. Fucking leave it._

“Thank God it was none of us,” agreed Evander.

She bit into the lip of the glass. Teeth cracking into the cool, hard edge. Tension hummed like static around the group, or perhaps it was in her head as she quietly brimmed with animosity. 

“So much happened that year. Rubeus Hagrid was expelled, do you remember?” Mused Alessa to no one in particular. Alya realized that a couple of the boys looked tense and cagey. _Because of Rubeus Hagrid or Myrtle?_ The tendons in Riddle’s neck were taut enough to snap. The look he gave an oblivious Alessa could wilt flowers.

“..You know..that bumbling oaf?”

Alya tensed. _It’s coming I can feel it._ As if she could read her mind, Alessa's beady eyes slid to her wickedly. “Oh and so were you not long after that,” she said blithely, “hm, I can’t recall why..."

Guinevere inhaled sharply. Romulus visibly swallowed. The tension amped to a higher voltage. No one spoke. Everyone silently watched their stare down. Alessa’s eyes narrowed to slits, she sipped her drink with a goading smirk. Alya hated that it was working. Flames of anger licked across her skin. She wanted to shut them all up, every single last rotten one of them. She could...it was be so easy, but she was in a barely-there, silk gown and her wand was somewhere in the depths of her clutch out of reach. This was one of the nights she was supposed to be _good._

_Lucky for Alessa._

Her molars ground against one another. Her fists would be balled if it weren’t for the glass she held. She squeezed it tight as if it were an orange. It was only after she left Hogwarts that she realised that school only taught them so much about the real world, about magic. _They only tell you what they want you to know._

“Perhaps we shouldn’t discuss that dark time during school,” Abraxas suggested, the older voice of reason. “Hogwarts was almost shut down that year. It’s all in the past isn’t it?”

Alessa, leaned back into her seat with a callous ‘hmph,’ and a victorious gleam her eyes. She took Alya's silence as a win. At least they were heeding Abraxas’ solid advice and nipping this discussion in the bud.

Louisa perked up in her seat as if she’d made a startling realization. “Moaning Myrtle that’s what it is!”

Rage course through her blood again, pounding against her ears. Alessa was still looking at her like that. She had years of loathing and unchecked fury building and expanding within her like a hot air balloon. The hairs on her arm stood and there was a crinkle of static in her hair.

_‘I’m afraid. I’m afraid of you.’_

_Yes mother. You should be._

Half a second later Alessa cackled. “Oh yes.” She covered her mouth in her mirth, but Alya heard it, they all heard it;

“Moaning. Mudblood. Myrtle.”

Several things happened at once. Glasses shattered. The French windows were flung open with a violent gust of wind that blew out the lit candles, plunging the room into a blue darkness. Several house-elves were knocked off their feet. Guests gasps in shock and confusion. Alya swerved her head around, only able to see a couple of dimly lit faces around her.

A snap of fingers and the candles lit once more. Unsurprisingly she'd angled herself in Riddle's direction. From the way his fingers were raised, it was his clever magic that had re-lit the room. Their ears were assaulted with blood curdling shriek from Louisa Choubert.

“My dress!” She leapt to her feet. Wine dripped over her hair and face. A massive red wine stain bloomed over her chest and waist.

_“What the bloody hell is your problem?!”_ Alessa glared daggers at her. Her pug-face was twisted in pain and anger. It was easy to see why; there was a shard of glass jutting out of her palm, weeping blood onto the carpet and her skirt. Guinevere stood next to her, trying to console and help her. Alya’s brain was in a lag, eyes skittering from one tragedy to the next until it fell on an unsettling realisation.

Oakheart was accusing _her_ of this. 

“It wasn’t me!” She denied vehemently, instantly knowing that was an outright lie.

“You liar!” Louisa hissed venomously and lunged for her. Evander gripped her bicep to stop her. Alya stood too; somehow her wand had found it’s way to her grip. A coffee table was the only furniture that separated them. Alessa sneered at her; _“You did this!_ You undeserving of your family name, _you—!”_

“Keep going!” Alya snarled. She was going to hear all of it again. The resentment, the scathing insults. But she was more than ready for it this time. “I’ll break more than just your glass!”

Alessa was either bloody stupid or too arrogant for her own good, as she continued screaming at her. “Threats! I wouldn’t have expected anything else, but depravity from you. Do you know what everyone’s says about _you?_ You blood trai—!”

“Go on, say it!” Alya raised her wand to eye-level. Fear flashed through Louisa’ countenance. Evander jumped in front of his fiancée and Oakheart protectively whilst Romulus grabbed Alya’s arms.

“Alright, that’s enough you two!” Lestrange barked, the first time she heard any commanding tone from him.

Romulus’ face was besides hers, his soft features strained. Guilt flooded Alya. _What am I doing?_ Alya looked to Alessa with her bloody hand, then Guinevere, whose dress was also drenched in red wine. The look on her face was loud and clear.

Disappointment.

In the end it was always Alya’s fault.

She shook Romulus off and stormed out.

. . .

The air was scented with lavender the wind carried from the fields. The moon hung in the night sky, white and swollen, caressed by grey clouds. She hurriedly passed hedges and statues of cherubs and Roman goddesses. The stone path was unforgiving to her stilettos. Eventually she stopped when her feet ached, stupidly remembering that she should’ve transfigured them to ballet flats before she’d run off like a-

_Like a fucking coward._

She leaned on a wall. Her hands trembling against her knees. As much as she tried to think of anything else. She couldn’t. There was the echo of Louisa’s scream, Alessa’s blood dripping onto the plush carpets. She couldn't help but imagine that all the red wine drenched over them looked like blood. _You_ did _promise that you would make her regret it._ The darkness chided. _Not like that. Not like this._ _It was only a bit of glass. Nothing lethal._

A fit of similar, but stronger rage had compelled her to do more damage than this. She’d hated his face. _Cruel and greedy..._

She bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood. _He deserved it Alya. He did._

Or so she told herself. 

The more she thought about it. The more she unraveled. She wanted to close her hands over her face but doing so would ruin her makeup. She had them in fists by her sides. What would it matter anyway? She wasn’t going to go back there.

_Fuck._ She had to floo out of there to get home. Face the others. Face Lestrange. Apparation between countries this far apart would squish her into a pile of goo. _Could my luck be any more shite?_ She thumped the back of her head against the wall, groaning in frustration. 

“Is everything all right?”

Alya couldn’t stop the yelp she made. Riddle stood a few paces from her, watching. Half his features cut in shadows, his lips blood red in the moonlight. Had he chased after her? He wasn’t panting. Her cheeks burned, pulse points thrashing against the cool marble of the stone she leaned on. 

She exhaled resignedly. “Of course it had to be you.”

He canted his head. “Did you want someone else?” He asked, conversational and casual, as if she hadn’t just exploded with unrestrained magic.

_Yes._

_No._

But as fate would have it, the only person could stand in this moment was Tom Riddle. A hysterical laugh threatened to bubble from her lips at the notion. It was only yesterday she'd flown from Borgin and Burkes deeply hating him. The hum she was beginning to associate with his presence sparked again, despite how she tried to brush him off; “You didn’t have to be chivalrous and check on me. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

He was much closer, four feet from her. She leaned off, turning to him angrily. What did he know about ‘fine’? Or what ‘fine’ was supposed to like on her?

“Then stop looking,” Alya snapped.

He gave a breathy half-laugh, the edges of his mouth curling and teased. “You have quite the temper, don’t you, Ms. Moore?” 

She exhaled a scoff. “She should be thankful I didn’t blast her to smithereens.” Alya squeezed her eyes shut at her error, _what the fuck?_ “Not that—not that I would ever—”

“No. Such a violent act would be uncharacteristic,” he stated with a strange smile, impossible for her to read. She wondered if he would ever look at her the way he did in the music room. Or if she was forever classed as a raging freakshow. That’s what they would say about her when this was over. She could already hear it. Alessa shrill voice telling everyone that Alya tried to _stab_ her, because that's how she would over-exaggerate and sensationalise the story. It'd spread like wildfire through the society, all of them hungrily lapping up the lies. 

Alya scowled. “If you expect me to go to her and apologize then think again.”

“I don’t,” said Tom with a small shrug. “I wouldn’t either,” he added after a long moment. “It was unforgivable what she said about your family.”

He was _watching_ her again, in that calculating way he did. Besides the ephemeral moment in the music room, she couldn't recall a moment where he'd ever truly stopped. There was a tiny crescent of light in his eyes she focused on. Alya bit her lip and batted her hand. “I’ve heard it all before. They ought to come up with new insults." She said that, but they still stung nonetheless.

She wandered to a low, circular fountain beyond them, there was a mermaid sculpture at the center of it, thrusting a massive shell to the heavens. Riddle was never far behind. She sat on the edge of it, suddenly very tired. Reckless explosions of wandless magic could be very draining. Alya stared at the lilies floating on its inky surface, interrupt by slices of moon.

“You shouldn’t scorn the dead like that,” she murmured, deep within her own thoughts. “Why should it matter what that poor girl was when she was alive? Some monster killed her when she was thirteen.”

“Did you know her?”

“No. Why should I have known her to feel sad about it?”

Riddle stood at the edge of the fountain dipping two fingers into the water, stirring it. She stared at his reflection staring back at him. Alya was reminded of a hero in a Renaissance painting, grace and beauty, coming to the edge of the water to woo a mermaid.

But that darkness in her told her Tom Riddle and 'hero' were not words that were associated with one another. She didn't know what to make of it. 

“Alessa's remarks were distasteful. The term she used was vile. The entire conversation was," he said. 

Alya looked up at him, his flawless skin glowed in the silvery moonlight. “So noble-blooded Miss Oakheart deserved what I did?”

“Maybe.”

He angled his head to glance down at her, lashes beating against his cheeks. Something dark passed over his granite features, and it wasn’t the shadows. “She’s been told her whole life that she could have everything in the world that she wanted. Perhaps it was a lesson in humility, if that’s what you intended,” said Riddle, voice dropping low, sending a tremor up her spine. Alya blinked at him, taken aback, with the urge to defend herself against his damning perception of her. He was making her out to be some cruel, spiteful woman. “I didn’t intend for anything. I was mad, it just-it just happened,” she argued, rather badly, willing for her tone not waver. “I wasn't trying to indirectly stab her hand with glass.”

There was stillness in the span of his shoulders, length of his spine. “She’ll be fine," he said, dismissively. 

“You disagree with her,” she ventured, carefully. “But I didn’t hear _you_ say a word against her.” Silence and indifference were equally at fault to allowing spawn like Oakheart and Choubert to continuing existing. 

“And nor did you, you acted on it instead,” he pointed out. Shutting her thoughts. “Anger is a potent spice, Ms. Moore. It must get tiring, to be constantly haunted by it." 

Her entire body felt like an exposed nerve he was free to poke at. _Only because you let him get so damn close every time._ Alya swallowed uneasily, chewing on her lip. _"Haunted by it'_ why did he choose to say that? What was he getting at? In a way she was haunted by an uncontrollable power and rage that possessed her in the worst moments. But he couldn't know the whole truth of it. He couldn't possibly know...

She tilted her chin at him, steeled herself. “All right. If you’re going to give out to me for being a raging freak with uncontrollable anger, I don't want to hear it, Riddle." 

“I wasn’t.” He said voice was soft, cool words caressing her. His mouth pressed into a thin line. “It was remarkable to watch you become unhinged like that.” It shifted until a dark, hungry grin played on his lips.

Something simmered in her stomach. “W-what?”

“And now your hand is bleeding.”

Unable to process the jarring shift in topic, she stared at her palm, confused. There was a tiny crumbled shard embedded in it, blood smeared around it. She’d been so mad, the pain had become imperceptible. That couldn’t be normal.

_‘Unhinged.’_ Was he calling her crazy? _Was_ she crazy? It was in her genes wasn’t it? Her father was crazy in love, followed it to his death, and her mother was just plain crazy.

“I...I didn’t notice," she muttered. 

Suddenly he sat beside her. Her heart did somersaults in her ribcage. Their heads bowed over her wounded palm, his smell of salt air and sandalwood, coiling through her senses. He tapped his wand on it. Healing spells were tricky to get correct verbally, risking further injury. But naturally, Riddle’s was well done. The cut knitted itself, only dried blood remained. It would sting tomorrow but it’d heal much faster than if a Muggle had the same injury.

_He’s different. He’s better._ Alya studied him, a subject she didn’t think she would ever tire of. The black curls at his forehead begged for her fingers to make a riot of them. His eyes lifted to her mouth. She was the fool that ran her tongue across her bottom lip. The moon was bright enough that she could see desire darkening in his eyes. Her breath caught in her throat. There he was, unmasked for a fleeting second.

Slowly, slowly, his free hand went to hers. He trailed a finger down her forearm, tracing a path of fire from freckle to freckle, making a constellation of her skin. Heat from her pounding heart, pooled into her abdomen. She wanted to tug on his lapel and pull him to her, or shove him. She didn’t know. But this was wrong. _He_ was wrong. A manipulative snake like the rest of them. She withdrew sharply from him.

“You sure you want to touch me?” Alya snapped coldly, but there was a terrifying quake in her voice. “Not afraid of my traitorous blood infecting you?”

Th desire scattered, darkness trembled, Riddle’s gaze widened with shock as if she’d slapped him. She doubted anyone had spoken to him like that in years.

“Is that what you think of me?” He sounded surprised, wounded even. Some part of her wanted to reach for him and smooth away the unhappiness creasing his face.

It didn’t last.

His face twisted, jagged lines marred every beautiful crevice. “Is your opinion of me so low?” He growled. “I went after you to make sure you were fine because I was genuinely concerned, and this is how you repay me?”

“I don’t owe you anything,” Alya rebuked, standing. “It’s not hard to forget. I still remember what you said to me.” His talk of noble blood, his little Slytherin gang of loathsome purebloods. A tic in her neck danced to some frenzied tune. Her heart never slowed. 

“So have I,” he retorted, his eyes ablaze. Every step she took backwards, he took another forward like a wild cat poised to attack. “At least I didn’t come out here to play pretend like you did and lose my temper in front of everyone. You’re a hypocrite.”

She’s never seen him this angry before, but Alya wasn’t one to tremble and duck from an argument. An argument she’d dragged them into. “Look in the mirror. You’re the same.” He was so immersed in the society, yet scorned them behind their backs. _A Slytherin and a snake through and through._ Salazar himself would be proud. 

“We are not the same.” He hissed in vehement denial, his anger palpable from where she stood. “We are _nothing_ alike."

“Thank God for that.” She shot back in his face, so close she would feel the heat of his body.

Tom went still, as if he were another statue in the garden. It would have been plausible if it wasn’t for the sound of his heavy breathing, as if it was draining all his energy and restraint not yell at her, lash at her, or crash into her- mouth, tongue and teeth. Her chest caught fire at the sinful notion, that also made her want to jump into the fountain to rid herself of this heat. 

His dark irises pierced her, cold as a knife’s bite, antidote to whatever she felt. “I still don’t know what I did to deserve your scorn.”

“Respect has to be earned, Tom.” Alya whirled to leave, terrified at the conflict within her. She gasped when he grabbed her wrist, the one wet with her blood. He gave a harsh tug, and she would've collided into his chest if she hadn’t planted her feet.

_“Respect?_ It goes both ways doesn’t it?” Riddle sneered, looming over her much smaller frame. “You have all this _sweet_ empathy for a Muggle-born girl you don’t even know and cower behind your pureblood name.” He said ‘sweet’ like it was poison. 

“You know nothing, Tom Riddle,” she snarled and yanked her wrist free. “You know nothing of my losses, of my torment—“

“And you know nothing of mine,” he exhaled, voice tangled with chaos and anger. Yet his eyes snagged on her mouth again, churning with unhidden emotions she couldn’t make sense of in the dark. 

She ignored the pulse points in her wrist that jumped restlessly. “Perhaps I would have cared to listen once upon a time.” Alya said, impossibly soft, and meant it.

A flicker of surprise crossed his face.

When she took a step backward he didn’t follow. She licked her dry lips, ignoring the flare of disappointment. She drew her shoulders back, standing tall. If they were to cross paths again she had to make a few things very clear. “Next time. Don’t touch me. Don’t look me. Don’t even _think_ about me," she hissed and relished in his look of fury as she spun from him, disapparating where she stood. 

* * *

**_TOM_ **

Tom viciously scrubbed her blood of his hand until his skin was pink and raw. The red tinged water stained the white porcelain of the sink. He’s killed before, and this ritual never fazed him. He didn't even think about it then. But he did now, it would permeate every thought for days to come. Because she was very much alive, because he’d grabbed her bleeding hand to prove to her that he wasn’t like the others. _To prove what? That I’m...good?_ He tasted bile. It was a morbid joke, his humorless laughter bordering on insanity as it ricocheted over the bathroom tiles. 

The serpent pin stared at him from the counter, tiny diamonds glinting mockingly at him. He had used a silent _Accio,_ to summon it from her hair. A prize. A momento for himself. Her hair was always annoyingly styled and neatly pinned in a certain way. Half a second was all he had, to watch her raven curls bounce free in a lustrous tumble down her back as she disappeared, oblivious to his little theft. For the barest moment, it made him feel good in savage sort of way, before he'd stalked back into the chateau with a stiff goodbye and rushed home. 

Tom had cracked open his soul and told her things he never told anyone before. This senseless act made him ache all over as if he'd competed in all three trials of a Triwizard cup in one night. He fucking wished he could forget how her gaze was the first specks of ash from a forest fire, how her hair was as dark and bold as the deepest night, how her touch was like sunrise over a cold horizon. How her power had unleashed on them, killed the light, shattered glass, tidal waves of it crashing into him, knocking the wind from his lungs. How her lips swelled every time she nibbled at it mindlessly. _I wanted to kiss her to stop it. To stop her arguing, her insults, kiss her for the sake of kissing her-_

He was hard just thinking about it. 

An enraged fist came down on the sink edge, any harder and the the porcelain would be crumbled clay. Skin and tendon sung in pain, Tom flexed his hand against it, but it was not enough to purge her. It made him angrier. He had been a simpering fool from the moment he laid eyes on her at her grandmother's wake. Sat at the grand piano, alone, as if none of the outside world mattered, except what music she could make. The gently repetitive song she played, beginning with a descent into sleepy dream-world. A reverie. The textures becoming ever richer. The dream of her becoming more lush and addictive to longer he watched, the more she was within his grasp. 

_Only for her to insult me so._

_'I don't know what I did to deserve your scorn' ‘Is your opinion of me so low?’_ Why on Earth had that wretched statement spilled from his mouth? Why did he feel the need for it? To explain himself? She would go home with the impression that he cared about her opinion of him.

But he did.

Another thing for her to _hold_ over him.

_'Don't touch me. Don't look at me. Don't even think about me.'_ She'd withdrawn from his touch as if he were some filthy half-creature she couldn't get away from fast enough. Now she was giving him fucking _rules_ to abide when he saw her next? _Who the hell does she think she is?_ But she had let bloody Romulus Lestrange restrain her, hadn't she? _Touch_ her? _Hold her back?_ _How dare he._

His vision drowned in red. He stepped out into the winter air to cool himself off or he would burn his entire flat down. His breathe came out in hot gusts like from a dragon’s snout. Tom let a growl rip from his throat, dodgy folk along the alley scampered away from him.

How could she enter into his life and force those statements from his mouth? How could she be so sweet to him and then scorn him the next? Why did he care? _This is meaningless in the grand scheme. She is not part of the plan. She is_ not _part of the plan-_

But Tom couldn't focus on his plans. On his future. Every breath he took, sentence he uttered to anyone human being was to mould his future. Carefully crafted, cunning. Like a God moulding his clay figures to his perfect ideals. But not when he was with her, and not in that instance. He was always looking ahead, but not now. Now, there was only Alya Moore. He wanted to curse her until she was begging on her knees for mercy. He wanted blood. The street was empty, with a snarl his wand cleaved the air, a dozen streetlights explode into flames, the snow flurries swirling around him in a windstorm.

He hardly slept that night. But he dreamt of her. His alabaster hand on the cold soft silk of her red dress, then touching her knee, where the skin would be smoother and hot as he pushed the dress higher, her thigh quivering beneath his touch.

Her bottom lip between his teeth.

His wand tip on her neck, slicing until it drew blood.

* * *


	9. Trouble and Old Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of sexual content in this

**_ALYA_ **

Alya woke with limbs tangled around her. To her left, Beatrice spooned her, ice-blonde hair fanning the pillow. Mathis' was tucked under her chin, his light brown hair tickled her neck, a sliver of sunlight glowing on his sun-tanned skin. 

After the mess of the Lestrange dinner party, she absconded to Paris for a two-day bender with Beatrice Le Borgne, a hotel heiress, whom told her to contact her the next she was in town for a proper night out. Alya didn't care what they did, as long as she could forget. Forget her violent magical outbursts, Riddle's eyes boring into her, their argument. More than anything, forget her own guilt that clung to her for months on end. Beatrice had her eye on Mathis for weeks. An artist whom sold well at the last charity auction her father hosted. Alya was drunk and game for anything. It took them all of five minutes to persuade him to spend the evening with them. They floo'd to the Moore summer house Suffolk where Alya decided to make a more permanent residence. She never lived anywhere alone before, being on the road so much. 

Tired, she detached herself and went to the bathroom for a shower. She shuddered awake at night with nightmares. It had been borderline claustrophobic with two bodies in her bed, but she did not want to be a rude host and throw them out into the cold night. Hair damp, donning on a jade silk robe, she padded to the kitchen that was built like a conservatory. It had tall windows on all sides giving her a picturesque view of the gardens. Alya put the kettle on and threw open the windows, the morning air chilly on her throat. Dawn met the horizon in a watercolour wash of pinks. 

From the first floor master bedroom she heard sighing and panting. She had a handful of drunken one-night-stands in the past. Satisfactory, fleeting dalliances. Although most of them were more interested in their own pleasure than hers. Alya strode in, pushing discarded clothes from the brocade settee. Mathis was on top of Beatrice, her legs hooked around his hips. Judging from her elaborate hair tossing and moaning, her pleasure was a performance. Mathis grunted, but looked dead watching Beatrice's show beneath him. His eyes met Alya's.

She undid the sash of her robe and spread her legs, reaching between them, her core was hot and slick. She stared at Mathis, but it wasn't him she thought of. In her head was Riddle's angelic face, dark-chocolate curls almost black, his bottomless eyes. She imagined him seated next to her, smoothing his hands down her belly. He would tease her first with slow strokes, smirking in that way she hated, the rasp of his voice sweetly telling her to beg for it. Her fist would make a riot of his impossibly neat hair. Her nose would be buried in smell of his neck. Those red lips clamped around her nipple as his elegant fingers drew circles around her clit, wringing pleasure from her.

Mathis watched Alya as she fingered herself. He made a pained expression, his thrusts quickening. Beatrice cried out when she came and Mathis shortly after. Alya liked this, looking into someone's eyes and knowing she could exert control over them. But it was fleeting. She was bored easily. 

"There's tea in the kitchen," she informed them, heading to the study to inspect the bookshelves.

Her palm was healed, _thanks to Riddle_. She stared at the barely perceptible scar, remembering that night. Remembering him. Puzzled as to when her beloved serpent pin had fallen out of her hair, whether it was lying in the Lestrange garden for him to find.

_‘You’ve...surprised me at every turn. It’s very disarming for someone like me.'_

Alya latched onto that like a prayer. Had she really done that to him? Or was that something he said to all the girls smitten by him? She groaned and clutched her head. She had been harsh on the others who pined for him, when she had fallen prey to those alluring dark eyes _exactly_ like they did.

Thirty minutes later Mathis left. Beatrice came by, hair mussed, beaded dress thrown on haphazardly. She smiled coyly. "So, what do you think of him?" 

"Not bad." Alya muttered, distracted. To her dismay, she had made little progress with the fire daemons. She had six months to master it. _Soon, five months._ For the first time in recent memory she was working against a metaphorical clock, thanks to her big mouth and ego. She needed to go into London. New texts might give her some clues as to what she was doing wrong. She looked up from her notes, her hair thrown up in a messy chignon. There was a page missing, but she wasn't sure which or when she misplaced it. "Hope your fiancé can satisfy you sexually like Mathis does."

She snorted. "I doubt he has the stamina for it, at forty-seven." 

"Forty-seven is young for wizards. You don't have to worry about his heart giving out at the sight of your beauty." Beatrice rolled her eyes. "Does your mother know about your little conquests?" 

Beatrice gave a cursory glance at her notes, not interested as she understood none of it. "She would curse me if she knew. He wants to see me again. Without you. No offense." 

Alya shrugged a shoulder. "None taken. He's more your type."

She curled a blonde lock, lips pursed. "It seems like a bad idea. Two nights in a row. I have rules to adhere to." 

"Oh bullshit. Just go. You know want to. All the sneaking around is deliciously fun, isn't it?" 

She sighed heavily, lounging on the sofa. "I suppose it all ends when I'm married to that old wort." 

Alya grinned wickedly over the rim of her tea cup, "Who said it has to end when you're married?" Beatrice laughed lightly, and shook her head. "You've always been such a bad influence, did you know that?" 

. . . 

Later, Alya wore a simple black day dress as she strolled along Diagon Alley with her new book purchases, eager to crack their spines. A few career opportunities had rolled in from the Ministry and Gringotts for curse-breaking. Something legitimate. _Something my mother would have scorned and called me a ‘sell-out’ to the institution. Something my grandmother would have abhorred, for women of our blood status are meant to manage estates and entertain their husbands guests._ Neither women were currently in her lives to tell her what to do.

Except...for the first time in her life no one was telling her _what to do._ Most normal people in their early twenties should be excited to begin a new chapter in their lives. This was a clean slate. A chance to determine her own damn destiny.

Did normal people feel this fucking terrified too?

A pair of children thumped against her arm, her books flew onto the cobblestones. She grouchily bent to pick them. A cool breeze glided past. It wound its way around her neck, kissed her throat, and whispered in her ear. Alya swallowed against the sensations, heart thumping against her chest. The air was shifting around her. She could feel it. There were eyes on her.

She drew her wand. Alya didn’t care that there were other shoppers on the road throwing her looks like she’d gone mad. It was real this time. It had to be. A tall blonde-haired man came perilously close and she gasped, foot plunging into a puddle.

“Magnus?” She shouted. _It can’t be real Alya. He’s dead. He’s gone._

The man turned around. It wasn’t him. Perplexed and harried, he continued his walk. Guilt sawed through her. Alya pocketed her wand and pinched her nose, inhaling deeply, hands trembling. How long would she have to go on like this? _'There are no mistakes Alya. Only decisions,’_ her grandmother once told her. The one moment, where she made an actual decision in her adult life, was one in cold blood.

He was a selfish man; he had her mother under his thumb for far too long, and consequently her. Alya took care of it. Took care of _her._ The manticore was coming for them. She chose her mother.

By killing. Playing God.

_I’m no God. I’m a monster._

The more he haunted her. The more she was certain that Magnus was waiting for her to die too.

. . .

Heming & Sons was a quieter, less frequented teahouse compared to Madam Puddifoot’s. It had a Chinese accented décor, was less pink and less likely to be filled with couples. Alya sat in a corner, back to the wall with one eye on the door—playing it safe—and the other on her new book. The fine porcelain china tea set had gilded handles, and a delicate blue design against bone white. Her tea was a personalized brew, with her selected notes of pomegranate, lavender, candied apples and violets. It was sweet, how she liked it.

“Hope your latest concoction doesn’t taste like grass.”

Alya was smiling before she peered up from the book.

“Willem.”

Saying his name out loud was like a warm hug to her soul. Willem Aquilla looked almost exactly the same, if it weren’t for the business-like, light grey robes he wore. Boyish face, thick brows, quick to smile. Except he sported a neatly trimmed beard now. His blue eyes were soft and attentive. “You came back and you didn’t think to pay me a visit?”

Alya was on her feet mid-sentence pulling him into a tight hug. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me,” he whispered against her hair with that easy friendliness that had endeared him to her when they were so young. 

“That's on me.” They sat across from each other on the cramped table. “I should have contacted you immediately. It’s been a headache these past few weeks.” Her complaints were for naught. She had purposefully avoided him, and he knew it. Hurting him like that, made her chest coil. 

As if he read her mind he smiled at her gently, forgiving her already. “I’m here now. You can rant to me about all of it.” He stopped a passing waiter. “Coffee please.” They smirked at one another. Only Willem would order coffee at a teashop with a hundred different brews from six continents to choose from.

They exchanged a few pleasantries about the city and their families; he was staying in London, the shipping business had a successful fourth quarter, his parents were fighting about some inane thing or another. "So; features editor at Transfiguration Today?" She ventured, sipping her tea. The combination of the warm tea and how relaxed she was in his company instantly made her day ten times better. “What happened to that cushy ministry job?”

“I missed writing. Writing warrants and summons doesn't count. I will say it was invaluable experience, but I couldn't see it pan out in the long term." He simply had to exist and the ministry job was his, but she was glad he was finding his own path.

“Hm. You can maintain the connections to the ministry if you marry my cousin.”

He closed his eyes. “Ah.”

“’Ah’ indeed,” she shook her head, hoping he couldn’t tell how her chest ached the more she pictured them together. ' _Every thought of yours is written so plainly on your face.'_ He was the boy she wanted to kiss since she was thirteen. Was now the time for her to tell Willem how she felt? Would it even matter? Did she still feel the same way? Or was he just familiar? “I had no idea you liked her that way,” she shrugged, playing it cool.

“I have a pile of letters that I never posted to you, about it. It read like self-indulgent ramblings.” His brows drew together. Of course Willem would feel this way about something that wasn’t his fault. “I hadn’t heard from you for some time, but I could imagine your reaction. I couldn’t keep it from you. I can never keep things from you.” 

“I felt, I feel-different. That's why I was so distant.” Alya wasn’t the best with heartfelt words. She wanted to tell someone about Magnus. It was a stone, sitting in her stomach that she had been waiting half a year to regurgitate. There was never a mystery about Willem. He treated everyone with the same respect and openness. But now that he was there, before her, being such a good listener, she couldn’t bring herself to tell him. “I’m not the same person you knew. It’s nice to think that there’s someone who remembered who I was back then."

“Hey,” he leaned a bit closer with a gentle half-smile. “You’ll never change to me. You'll always be the same annoying girl whom I spent way too many detentions with.” Alya laughed. “Smarter than I ever could be, and she wouldn’t let me forget it."

Alya wrapped herself around that notion, like it were a reassuring cushion. But something like grief broke into her chest as she realized it wasn’t enough. “So, Guinevere?” She prodded.

Willem explained that her cousin was a patron of winged horses like him. Guinevere was an excellent rider and trainer. They became close during the annual races. The more he spoke of her cousin with that wistful, sparkly quality in his eyes, the more Alya knew he truly did like her. It was not merely a convenient marriage arrangement that he made with haste because of his nagging parents. 

“There was a spark there, but it seems I haven’t sustained her interest,” he said, looking like a lost golden retriever with the sunlight painting gold into his hair.

She let the shards close over her heart. “Blame my aunt,” she smirked, keeping her expression humorous and wry. That was how he knew her, remembered her. She didn’t want to act like a jealous ex. _You_ aren’t _his ex_. “Apparently you’re not rich enough.”

“That's absurd. I’d say I was of equal financial power with Leon Rosier,” he countered. “Wittier, smarter, better looking in my—in my humble opinion.” His cheeks reddened, as her grin widened.

“Poor Rosier isn’t even here to defend himself in this pissing content.”

He laughed at that, his shoulders jutting up and down. She missed his laughter. "She's thinks you have nothing in common."

"Really?" Willem sighed tiredly, staring solemnly at the table. She hated that he was upset. "I never saw it that way. But If she likes him more, who am I balk at her choice of future husband?”

“If you really like her, you shouldn’t stop trying.”

He arched a brow. “Really? You think so? I thought you would be against us. She’s not your favorite person in the world.”

“She’s not my least favorite." She thought about Guinevere's disappointment as she nursed Alessa's bloodied hand, wondering if those bridges were burned completely. "Just show her you're interested." _I'm doing you a favour cousin, I hope you learn that one day. "_ Don't give up. If she makes you happy, what does it matter what I think? Happiness is all I’ve ever wanted, for you.” Her tongue felt clumsy on the words. But it was the whole truth. He was the first person she ever wanted happiness for. Even if it meant burying an old crush in the dirt forever and letting Guinevere have him. It was really that simple wasn’t it? Yet, at the same time...it wasn’t. Happiness was fleeting. Even love, in her experience. Alya had yet to find anything solid, real and timeless in this cold world. Something worth fighting for.

_Or...killing for?_ A devil hissed at her. 

Willem smiled at her brightly, banishing her dark thoughts. Reaching for his hand would be so easy, but she stopped herself. It wasn’t right, just another of her selfish desires. 

“I’m picking up wine. Do you want to come along?” It was probably unwise to have more alcohol after three days of partying in Paris, but she was not in the right frame of mind lately to actually care about it. 

Willem smirked. “Have I ever said ‘no’ to you, Moore?”

. . .

“What are your plans now that you’re back?” He asked as they strolled. 

“Gringott’s approached, and so has the ministry, but I don't know." She felt silly to be in-between career paths when everyone her age seemingly had it figured out. “I hardly qualify academically but they want someone with my unique expertise.” _The ministry wouldn't want to hire a fucking murderer either._

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You had excellent marks you could’ve been a prefect.”

She snorted derisively. “Doubt Dippet would have agreed to that. I had the entire Hogwarts staff against me.” They’d gotten to know her very well during Saturday detentions, as she was the reason they didn’t have a weekend.

“Not all of them. Although, I've been your guinea pig taking the brunt of your hexes in duels, you would probably abuse that prefect power, knowing you.”

She smacked his arm. “You make me sound like some evil villain!"

"Trouble finds _you,_ Moore."

They stopped at the liquor store. Alya picked up a red wine she loved. Willem insisted on paying for it, as a homecoming gift. “Carmilla is marrying Douglas Avery,” he told her as they left. _Another from Riddle’s circle of friends._ They’d passed the narrow stairwell that led off to Knockturn alley an hour ago. The dark shadows beckoned her over.

“I wanted to personally invite you to the engagement dinner,” said Willem. “They’ll be a whole spread about it in the _Daily Prophet_ on Monday."

His sister graduated from Hogwarts last year. Her fiancé was their age. “What do you think of Avery?" 

“Mother and father are quite proud of the match," he deflected. His opinion didn't matter in the end. It was a powerful match. The Avery's were British and the Aquilla’s were descended from a wealthy Italian line.

“It’s quick too. You don’t think she could do better?”

His mouth turned down. “His sense of humour is too sarcastic for my taste. He’s also a bit...unnerving. Most Slytherin’s tend to radiate that sort of energy."

“Honestly, you make us sound like a bunch of creeps!”

“You’re just competitive to point of obsession.”

“Oh shut it.” _Speaking of Slytherins._ “Did you hear about the last dinner party I went to?”

“I might have. Accidents happen. Although lunging at Alessa Oakheart with the Lestrange family sword doesn’t sound very non-accidental to me.”

“ _What?”_ She stopped in her tracks. “I knew she would blow it out of proportion.”

“Abraxas explained it to me," he rubbed his neck. "It just seems-you know, wandless magic usually equates to a lot of...unchecked rage. I don't remember you ever doing something like that back in school." 

She instantly turned on the offensive. “What are you getting at?" What happened to ' _you'll never change to me' ?_

He raised a palm as he realized the mistake. “Sorry, don't take it personally, Alya. It's just-" Willem getting like this was never good. It was a lecture incoming. He kept a steady tone. “I'm just looking out for you, you know that." 

“You should have heard what they said,” she argued, feeling her face getting heated. He was doing that ‘calm down’ gesture. It _always_ had the opposite effect. _He never learns._

“I don’t like her either, but you _need_ to be careful around those people,” he cautioned, pleadingly. “They can destroy lives. You can’t take it too far."

He meant well. She knew that. "Let me explain my version of what happened. I-"

She felt those watching eyes on her again. This time she was fast.

_“Stupe—“_

Not fast enough. The hex bludgeoned her squarely in the chest. She sailed several feet through the air, crashing into a stack of cauldrons. People screamed. Willem rushed to her. She was hot. It wasn’t solely anger or adrenaline. It was the effects of the hex. Her forehead burned with a fever, there was the metallic tang of blood in her mouth. Alya oriented herself and saw Evander Travers, smirking, moments from scurrying off like a rat. Alya tossed a hex that he dodged. No matter, his stumble gave her a chance to get to her feet and run.

Willem shouted after her, but couldn’t keep up. Alya directed hex after hex at Evander’s back as she chased him, winding through alleys, her lungs on fire. He threw pale blue curses over his shoulder. She re-directed them to the walls, turning bricks to red dust. All the while, the fever made her vision double. With a swishing gesture, Travers’ charmed a stack of crates to fly at her, Alya battered them to splinters.

She was forced to stop as she doubled over and coughed as if she meant to dislodge a lung. Blood flecked on the cobblestones, horrifying her. Evander slowed down twenty feet ahead. Beside him was Victor Rosier. _Leon’s brother._ He wore an eye-patch. Her fever was at its peak, pounding against her temples, her vision was red and black, limbs heavy as she struggled to stay upright. Alya sent one last hex into the whirl of colours as they disapparated; unsure if the spell met it’s mark.

Her nose was bleeding in earnest; her palm coming away with a red handprint. _A curse to increase my body temperature._ _They wanted me to suffer._

Alya clutched a wall, each breath was as if a blunt object was caught in her ribs grating them from the inside out. She concentrated on the counter curse. Not giving it the dedication it necessitated might kill her with incompetence. A white light emitted from her wand. A cold wind licked her skin from head to toe. Her fever was gone, replaced with a headache that was like a tight band across her forehead. _Control. Stay strong._ She took inventory of her current state and whereabouts. Alya found herself in an gothic archway facing none other than Knockturn Alley.

She slowly made her way to the main thoroughfare, past the White Wyvern pub and finally to Borgin & Burkes. She should have continued ahead to Diagon Alley, but there was unfinished business. Evander and Victor were brazen enough to attack her in _broad_ daylight. Did they see her as a weak mark? Could they have been the following her in the morning too? She didn’t bother putting a hood up, she wore a vengeful look that scared off every decrepit character there.

As if fate taunted her, the front bell to the Borgin & Burkes dinged. A dark-robed figure stepped onto the melting snow. She knew it was him by the confident set of his shoulders and his height. He swaggered out of the entryway with a look of placid indifference. _How would_ he _feel being hexed?_

He stopped, sensing someone watching. Riddle spun as Alya charged to him. But with all the grilling she aimed to do she could only manage one syllable;

_“You.”_ Alya exhaled, hoarsely. Her head swam, she swayed. Riddle steadied her with a hand at her waist. A faint thrill shot up her spine and down to her toes. She doubted anything could startle Tom Riddle, but there was plain shock on his features as his gaze skirted over her. She must look ghastly; blood running from both her nostrils, hair tangled, forehead smeared with sweat and brick dust.

"What happened? Are you all right?" 

"Clearly not." She stabbed a finger at his chest. “Tell your _friends_ to stay the hell away from me, and to stop following me!" She hissed, jabbing away. She had to tip her head up to look at him. It must look ridiculous, a girl her size picking a fight with a six-foot-two man in a dark alley.

He frowned, but didn’t waver. He never did. “My friends?” His mask slipped, his brows knitted, and lips parted in disbelief. “Who did this to you?" He asked, dangerously low. His fists clenched and unclenched, gripped with emotions he tried to put a leash on. 

“Travers and Victor Rosier," she said, tasting bile. "Retaliation for what I did at Lestrange’s I take it. Louisa sending her fiancé to do her dirty work,” she grumbled. "If you didn't know, I'm also the reason Rosier has to wear an eye-patch. Eyeballs really don’t grow back, do they? As if getting me kicked out of Hogwarts wasn't enough for that family, now this?" 

"Tell me exactly what happened. They broke your nose?" He asked, a command, but not as terse as she was used to with him. 

“It was a curse,” she muttered, her anger not as inflamed as before, conflicted by his reaction. “ _Chaleur des sanguis,_ judging from how it felt like my head was on fire. I chased them, but they were too fast." Where was that dark arrogance she was used to? 

His eyes narrowed, studying her. “Your counter curse needs a little work.” _Ah there it is._

How could he tell her counter-curse wasn't strong enough with one look? He was too skilful for his own good. Riddle drew his wand. Before she could protest, he wordlessly casted it. Her headache disappeared. He was helping her _and_ showing off? She wished the ground could swallow her whole. He put his wand away in his robes. His eyes hardened to stone. “These are severe accusations. Are you sure it was them?”

_Siding with his little gang._ “They struck me with my back turned, like cowards," she seethed. "But I saw them. Did you know they were going to do this?”

“Of course not. Why would you—“ he exhaled roughly as if in exasperation. A muscle in his cheek twitched. “If I knew what they were going to do, I would’ve put a stop to it before it happened," he said evenly. "They could’ve killed you.” His eyes were tormented, brimming with _concern._ Was it real or wishful thinking on her part?

“Were they planning this?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what happens amongst the heirs?

“We’re not attached at the hip." He said, tone short, and stepped closer. "I’m sorry they did this to you.” 

She leaned on the wall. “I’m fine.” She wasn’t.

Closer he came, pinning her to the wall with his gaze. “Here.” A white handkerchief poofed into his palm and suddenly it was dabbing against her cupid’s bow in absurdly tender strokes. All the little rules she set were gone. The fabric was cool and scratched lightly beneath her nose. Her lips parted, he stared at them during his ministrations. His head and shoulders almost entirely blocking what little sun there was in the alley. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, maybe because of her too. When he wiped at the corner of her lip, his knuckle brushed her bottom one. Their gazes met, his seared through her.

He smiled at her, earnest and unguarded. Her stomach fluttered. That dark hum in full effect. Her hands tingled with heat at his proximity. “You coming all the way down here just to find me and tell me this is surprising, for someone who can’t stand to be near me."

"Oh don't flatter yourself Riddle." She rolled her eyes, trying not to ponder on how she pleasured herself with thoughts of him. “You’re coming intolerably close, you know,” she breathed taking the handkerchief from him. He stayed exactly where he was.

He made a sound that was like a laugh, low in his throat. His breath warmed her skin. “You didn’t seem to mind it the other night. Reaching into my lap for my hand.”

A sweet sort of weakness trembled in her legs. Behind the white cloth, her cheeks burned. His eyes dipped to her mouth again, and her entire body flushed. She pushed off the wall, ignoring the pound of her heart. He could not have the last word. Whenever he was close, everything she had built in her mind scattered like snow in a storm. “Did no one teach you about manners and how to speak to a lady?”

“Manners,” his expression flattened, eyes narrowed. _“_ You want to educate _me_ about manners?”

“Your mother never taught you—“

“My mother left me when I was born,” he cut her off sharply. “Muggles had their own methods of teaching me how to behave. Some of us fellow orphans weren’t so lucky." Even with the trace of venom in his tone, her heart clenched. She stayed silent. Riddle’s icy aloofness broke. There was something lost there. It was gone just as easily, his eyes bored into her, replaced with pure loathing that made her want to shrink;

“But I doubt you’d ever experienced that in your entire privileged life. The piano and etiquette lessons must have been such a heavy burden to bear." 

He may as well have had an icicle aimed at her heart. _So sweet one moment and then cruel the next._ She glared at him. “Oh fuck you—“

“Alya?” Willem’s voice called to them. “Alya!” He sprinted over.

Tom and her were too close for comfort. She put as much distance between them as possible. Willem clutched her arm, panting. “You shouldn’t be down here you—oh, Tom.” He said, noticing that it wasn’t a dodgy man accosting her but their respectable former Head Boy. “Willem.” Riddle said, his façade in place.

She peered between them, masking her annoyance. “You know each other?”

“Everyone in London knows one another," Willem said. “Are you hurt?”

“Just a nose bleed," she lied, ignoring Riddle's flicker of surprise. 

"How did you get down here? You shouldn’t be in a place like this.”

Alya bit her tongue, infuriated. Didn’t he know her? She was perfectly capable of walking through Knockturn Alley unsupervised.

“Don’t worry. I made sure she was alright.” Riddle’s smile slid to her. She had managed on her own fine without him. She cast him a withering look.

“Who did this?” Willem asked. 

“Rosier and Travers. I don’t think they expected me to have the energy to chase after them.”

“ _Rosier_ was the one who hexed you?” Asked Willem. “Victor?” His forehead creased in anger. Which is rare for him. She nodded. “That son of a bitch. We have to go to the Auror’s office—“

She couldn’t believe his first instinct was to go to the authorities. It was so naïve. “No, no, don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going to report them over this.”

“You’re not?” Tom wondered. “You’re going to go after them yourself?” He asked, bemused. Alya knew if Willem weren’t there, that hungry dark grin would be in full-effect on Riddle’s face and that delicious heat she was ashamed of would fill her core.

Willem frowned like a cross parent. "No, she isn't."

“It was a stupid prank,” she insisted, wishing Riddle would disappear. “Embarrassing me was exactly what they intended. It was to make an example of me in public. Retaliating would blow this whole situation out of proportion. I ruined his fiancée's dress and he-"

“What they did, that’s _not_ okay, Alya. You're bleeding, for crying out loud." Willem forced her to meet his gaze. “The authorities—“

“The authorities are spread thin chasing Grindelward wannabes. They don't exist to settle petty family feuds.”

“I’m meeting Dumbledore after this at the paper. He’s always advocated for you—“

She raised her hands. “Enough,” she announced in a tone that brokered no argument. “I don't want to discuss this any further. We are not going to the Auror's office. I’m going home.” She would think of how to handle this on her own. 

Willem’s shoulders stiffened. “To the manor?”

“Suffolk. Let’s get out of here."

Willem opened and closed his mouth. He could never sustain an argument with her. He turned to Riddle with an amiable smile. Willem was such an innocent soul; he could get along with anyone. “Thank you, Tom. We appreciate your help. It was good to see you.” They shook hands. 

"You're welcome. I'm always here to help, especially a lady in need. I hope you feel better soon, Ms. Moore." 

Alya chewed on her top lip. She didn't know what to be annoyed about; Willem acting like her protector, being hexed, or Willem thanking Riddle for doing absolutely nothing. _Not anything, he did fix your counter curse._ After a curt farewell, they made it seven paces when she realized she was still holding Tom’s bloodied handkerchief. Her stupid courtesy hammered in told her to return it. "Hold on," she told Willem.

Riddle glanced over his shoulder as she returned. Watching intently. No one ever looked her directly in the eyes the way he did. _But he does that with everyone,_ a voice taunted her.

 _But sometimes he looks at your lips,_ added another slyly. “Tom. Your handkerchief.” She used his first name, unthinkingly. If he noticed he didn’t make any show of it. “It's ruined. A cleaning spell may not suffice, but I could—”

“Keep it. You need it more than I do," said Tom and not unkindly, hand hovers over hers, like a gallant knight in black armor. There was hardness in his brow, which she recognized when his mind was working very fast, drawing up plans she was not privy to. She would pay thousands of galleons for a cipher that could decode all of Tom Riddle’s faces that he traded between so quickly. "Don't worry about Rosier and Travers."

"What does that mean?" She asked, taken aback. They were out of earshot of Willem, he would not have said something like that near him. 

He smiled with his teeth. "They'll have their day of reckoning, somehow." 

Unnerved, they parted, and she strode off arm linked with Willem, forcing herself not to look back. He muttered curses about Victor. "They're vile, absolutely vile. Why can't the rest of that group be as nice as Riddle?" 

She wanted to tell him that sometimes she felt he was most dangerous of them all. 

* * *

**Thanks for stopping by to read my little story. Please leave kudos and comments as it helps to know if people are actually enjoying the story. Also if the chapter lengths are too long, I'll split them into two for easier reading.**


	10. The Bloody Consequences

_**TOM** _

“But the prince _insisted_.”

“What a character.”

“And do know what I said?”

Tom smiled through the pain. “Do tell.”

“I said ‘no’ to the royal highness,” said Lady Treacle, scandalized. The feathers in her ostentatious burgundy hat tickled his nose as she turned to Borgin who listened raptly behind the counter. Tom stifled a sneeze. “Then I thanked him for dinner, and insisted he keep those snidgets to himself. Merlin knows I have too many on my hands!"

_Another tale as dull as a spoon._

“You have so many riveting tales, Lady Treacle,” said Tom. 

She sighed. “And no one to listen to them as I totter in that castle of mine.” Tom wrung his hands tightly behind him. _If she mentions that bloody castle one more bloody time..._

“Mr. Riddle will be there next week to oversee her ladyship’s tapestry collection,” said Borgin, eyes greedy at the prospect of getting his grubby hands on the twenty foot Lady of the Lake tapestry. _If I can convince her to give me the whole King Arthur collection, he’ll have to give me better contracts than rich widows._

“Ah splendid,” she clapped her hands. “I do enjoy the company of such a fine young gentleman.”

He winced internally at the prospect of having to stand through another one her long-winded tales. Tom led her to the front entrance. “Safe journey home Lady Treacle.”

“Always so considerate, Mr. Riddle.” She gave him that dazed smile he often got, and offered her hand. It smelt of musty potpourri. Tom dutifully bowed his head to kiss it. As the Heir of Slytherin, Tom despised it; bowing, kneeling before anyone he thought unworthy, but it was a show in the end.

“A pleasure as always.” 

“You’re dismissed.” Said Borgin without so much as peering up from the ledger, his oily manner nonexistent. In his eyes Tom was just a polite half-blood shop boy. _Little does he know._

“Have a good evening Mr. Borgin,” said Tom politely, and fixed his outer robes on. He never got a response after that. He stopped taking it personally ages ago.

. . .

Despite having unforeseen business to take care of concerning a certain witch, Tom was always punctual to meetings. That meant his followers had to be there before him. Luckily for them, no one was late. They never met in the same location twice in a row, and they _never_ went to Tom’s London flat. None of them knew where he lived. He needed the anonymity and to keep the space sacred and untainted. He set the dates and times as needed and disseminated the information through coded letters between enchanted fireplaces, the parchment turning to ashes after it was read. Paranoid, as he was, Tom knew he needed to devise a more discreet form of communication.

A half dozen of his followers were present, all of them stood. Tom sat in a brown leather armchair by the fireplace in Malfoy’s grandiose drawing room, a thick Moroccan carpet beneath his shoes and paintings of dead Malfoys in golden frames on the walls. Tom needed a drink. His mood at the start of the meeting was soured with undercurrents of fury. There would be time to address it later. He summoned a glass of Firewhiskey. _Moore Firewhiskey_. It had notes of smoked cedar and oranges. Tom had half a mind to spit it out. But he couldn’t complain. It was the best on the market.

“Your report Malfoy.” Abraxas' white-blonde hair was pale gold in the firelight. The Malfoy heir had been the most reliable servant of late, and he never gave Tom any reason to curse him.

“As my lord requested, I inquired further regarding the name Magnus. There is a Magnus Skarsson. He is a servant of the Dark Lord, recruiting and providing a network into the black markets in Romania. He went off the grid last year, however. His last report was from Greece.”

A face to the name Alya Moore uttered when he’d followed her. Tom saw the _Elemental magic_ book she purchased, a grin spreading on his mouth. Just so, he nearly collapsed onto his rear when she whipped out her wand. He had been several paces from her, but he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, even under the protection of his powerful dillusionment charm. But Alya sensed him. Fear, guilt, horror crossing her features in rapid succession.

He’d returned to Borgin and Burkes to write urgently to Abraxas to investigate. Tom had never expected to see her again within the same day, even if she did not know he'd witnessed her moment of distress. Seeing her stumble to him, bleeding did not yield the satisfaction he thought it would. It had gleaned an unprecedented reaction from him. His genuine concern, his care for her left him confused, vengeful, pissed off and damn it, _aroused._

“Any known relatives?”

“Skarsson has family in England,” said Abraxas.

_Could it be the same Magnus?_ He could not ponder on it too long, there were other items on the itinerary. “Black.” A dark haired man stepped forward. “Give me a list of who we have currently stationed in the Auror’s Office and their positions.”

Tom responded with whomever could be bribed and blackmailed to secure higher positions within the ministry. It was tedious and slow work moving these chess pieces, but necessary. He directed Mulciber to trace their Bulgarian contacts, so that they may establish a strong hold there, and then gave the task of recruiting younger heirs to Lestrange's cousin. Fresh Hogwarts graduates; bright-eyed and eager for the real world were the most pliant if correctly persuaded.

Tom held his glass and ran his nail over his lower lip. A knot of tension built in his throat. His followers waited with bated breath for his next orders. They were never done unless he said they were.

“Step forward Rosier,” he finally said.

Victor— who had been quiet the entire time—darted his single eye around and stepped onto the carpet. He bowed his head. “My lord.”

“Travers.”

Evander had purple and yellow bruising over his neck and cheek, Moore’s doing. _She doesn’t miss, does she?_

Their gazes were slightly downcast. No one could bear to be under the direct scrutiny of the Dark Lord for too long. Both of them were relatively new to the fold. Victor had long light brown hair, slicked back, and hollow features; his eye appeared to sink into his skull. He was jittery compared to his older brother, whom wasn’t present. Travers, was shorter, but stood more confidently, even meeting the Dark Lord’s eye every now and then.

“What happened to your face?” Tom asked Evander, almost too conversational. A more seasoned Voldemort follower would know to tread carefully on the glass he laid out. 

“A hex,” he said, and tacked on, “my lord.”

“I saw your handiwork on Ms. Moore,” Tom remarked, stoically. “Whose idea was it to hex her?”

“It was—it was Louisa’s,” Evander mumbled and then cleared his throat to speak louder. “She suggested it, and I agreed to it.” If Tom was a different man he might have found this devotion touching. “Victor and I saw Moore in Diagon Alley and it seemed like the right opportunity.”

“And you always act on the trivial whims of your fiancée?"

He winced. Truly, Tom was disappointed Traver’s wasn’t more astute. Was he to believe he wouldn’t attempt something like this again? _Bewitched and ensnared by his fiancée._ He leaned back a little, studying them, the firelight casted gold and black lines across his face. “Rosier. Travers dragged you into this ‘brilliant’ ploy to attack a witch in public. What exactly did you expect the outcome of this to be?”

“We were careful,” muttered Rosier.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Rosier’s jaw snapped shut as if he’d struck him. “Neither of your cared to rule out other witnesses. If we didn’t have our reach within the ministry, neither of you would be here, right now. Moore saw your faces and pursued you,” Tom hissed, his voice like jagged stones in a riverbed. “Your little plan was moronic and was reckless, all for the purpose of petty retribution. If she caught you, if she’d decided to make a formal report to aurors, if she’d followed you to this very meeting,” he seethed, unable to keep the ire out of his tone. He rarely ever put out any emotion, but he couldn’t make sense of why it was leaking from him now. “What would you have done then?” He demanded.

“The secrecy of these meetings are paramount, my lord,” insisted Victor, staring at a spot on the ground like his life depended on it. “We would have done our best to ensure that, my lord.”

“But you didn’t,” he barked, “and I had to clean up your mess.” _Salazar, help me, it’s like squabbling with children._ “As for your ‘best’,” Tom's eyes narrowed. “I have yet to witness any contribution to our cause worthwhile from you Rosier.”

“People have—people have always believed our word over hers. It—“

He leaned back in the armchair. _How easy it must have been to get away with whatever they wanted with the right family name?_ Tom thought bitterly. “Ah yes, and you bank on that, don’t you? You—”

“My lord, if I may be candid,” Evander interrupted him. Abraxas and Ulric behind him tensed, but Travers carried on despite the social cues to stay quiet. “I acted only with my lord’s best interests. I apologized deeply if we have displeased you. I acknowledge that our...attack on Moore was brash, but she’s a blood traitor,” he defended, talking with his hands, gathering his courage. “One of many. Surely we should consider pulling out these weeds before they poison the whole garden.”

He regarded him for a long moment. “I see,” Tom said slowly, his face as unreadable as a slab of stone. “You make a good point Travers.” Evander lit up at the compliment. “How should I reward you for taking the initiative?”

Evanders learnt a lesson that night.

Tom learnt that he preferred quiet. Sometimes, he found certain sounds to be very rousing; sounds that could force the threads of his mind to focus, or sounds that he could get lost in. The way Evanders violently howled on the ground was like an animal caught in the trap of slow death. He wished he wasn’t so loud.

He liked poetic justice. It was fitting that Evander became victim to the same blood curse he’d inflicted on Alya Moore. Images of her nose bleeding, her gentle face when Tom spoke of his fucking _mother_ , assaulted his mind, and so he made a few alterations to heighten Evander’s pain. _You will not touch her. You will not hurt her._

Travers screamed to the rafters, writhing like worm, arching his back as if he meant to snap his own spine. And he bled. Bled until the carpet was covered with splotches of red, that would take several kilos of salt to wash out.

At last, Tom stopped, an acrid taste in his mouth. He stood over the trembling mess of a man, his vision choked with darkness and hatred. The scent of burning metal and iron blood clung to the air of the stuffy room. The others had remained dutifully silent throughout, at risk of his wrath. He normally did a quick sweep to check for any hint of dissent, but he was still too consumed with rage to do so.

“I don’t care about your pathetic feuds,” Tom growled, like something feral, staring down into Evander’s blood shot eyes, his face painted in streaks of bone white and red, wheezing as if he breathed through a straw. 

“Think twice before risking my cause like that. And _never_ interrupt me again.”

Tom’s gaze shot to Rosier. He blanched, his pupil was a pinpoint, and he reeked of sweat and fear. Any moment now and he’d be on his knees begging for mercy. Tom didn’t want that. Not today. “I have a bone to pick with Moore. From now on, she is mine to deal with,” he snarled, teeth grinding until his jaw ached.

Victor crumpled in relief. His followers bowed their heads as Tom disapparated. Torturing Evander didn’t quell his anger as much as he wanted it to. It still pulsed around him in waves. The emptiness in him howled like wind in a cave. Something was _missing._ And he didn’t know what it was.

* * *

_**ALYA** _

“Your sherry, m’am.” The white-gloved waiter rested the garnet drink on a coaster. Alya gave him charming smile and tipped him generously with British pounds. He flushed. Alya was already bored.

Willem used to tease her for masquerading as a wealthy Muggle. Something about being someone else for a day, in another world, was exciting for her. Now it felt silly. The Rivioli bar at the Ritz was beautiful, though. Alya lounged in a red velvet booth under crystal chandeliers, wearing a blush pink knee length dress from a popular French Muggle designer, Christian Dior.

Alya had wallowed in bed after the run-in with Travers and Riddle, nursing herself back to full strength. The dark spell he used wasn’t the most sinister but recovering from dark magic took its toll. _Recovering is suffering,_ her grandma once said. Alya learnt that the hard way, suffering curses and hexes from schoolmates and older boy cousins who were wary of her existence and thought to practice a curse or two on her. Truly most of the reason she was in Muggle London was to avoid any purebloods that could attack her. Nonetheless, she had watched for anyone trailing her and took longer routes to get to places. _I will not be caught off guard again. No. I'll give them a fight. A proper one._

She took a sip of her drink as a raven-haired woman slid into the seat across from her.

_Merlin._

For a moment she was too stunned to respond. “What are you doing here, mother?” She asked stiffly.

Vela Al-Parsi was beautiful; dark ruby lips, heavy-lidded brown eyes, and long raven hair in coils framing face that was similar to Alya’s but narrower with a pointed chin. Her mother looked thinner though, and tired. “I came to see you, child.”

_‘You need to leave. Now,’ Alya hissed at Magnus._

_‘Is that a threat?’_

_‘Yes.’_

_‘You’d never make it on your own.’ Magnus smirked, staring at her loathingly. ‘Don’t worry; I’ll take care of her.’ The predatory look he gave made her skin crawl. ‘And when I’m done with her, I’ll take care of you...”_

Alya had to fight the tide of sickness the memories wrought. “Why? You left me remember?”

“Can you blame me? After what you did?” Her mother had never been one for affection, and neither was Alya, but Vela was acting even more detached from her than the last time they’d been in the same room. “I needed to mourn, to come to terms with what happened.”

Her lower lip curled resentfully. “Did you even mourn for my father, like you mourned for him?

Vela winced. “That’s not fair.”

_Merlin. She wants to do this now? In a Muggle bar?_ Alya cast a _Muffliato_ to keep their conversation private should it descend into a shouting match. Her fingers couldn’t stay still. Her voice trembled with anger and grief. “You just can’t admit it to yourself that you would’ve done the exact same thing if you were in my position.”

Alya could deal with a shout or a yell, but not her mother’s soft remorse. “What you did wasn’t to protect me, child. It was savagery.”

Her grandmother and mother both called her that whenever she was in trouble. She disliked it. "And it was yours and his idea to hunt for it,” she hissed, fighting hot tears. “You didn’t love him, not completely. That man had you under the _Imperius_ curse.”

“He didn’t.”

“Yes. He did,” she retorted staunchly. “Why can’t you believe that? Believe me?” Alya had been quaking in fear that Magnus would use the curse on her, too. “It’s your fault for bringing him into our lives!”

Her mother’s face shattered. “I will admit to my part in it, and it is my burden to bear.”

_Just as_ I _was your burden?_ Travelling with her mother was not the rosy holiday Alya had wanted, and made everyone else believe it to be. Vela was a mentor, but she wasn’t the mother figure she needed. The first time someone tried to kill them—a Muggle whose land they trespassed on after her mother overlooked the crucial detail—Alya was forced to step up, and she was never the same since.

There was half a year they spent in Turkey. Alya met her grandfather on her mother’s side. He’d taught her much. Living there was the only stability she had in those years before her mother whisked them off again. “You’re also the one who introduced me to the sides of magic I was never exposed to, before.”

“You bastardized it.”

“Fitting word,” she said sullenly, and crossed her arms tightly. 

“I don’t know if it was something I taught you or didn’t teach you. But I know I never taught you how to—to _kill_ a man.”

“Well, the woman who _actually_ raised me is dead,” she pointed out, enjoying her mother’s look of betrayal. “She did all the heavy lifting for you, so I suppose we’ll never truly know.”

"I think your grandmother would be proud. Look at you, sitting there in her perfect image, dripping in wealth. You look very comfortable here,” said Vela, gesturing at Alya, cutting her a sharp look. “I think the life of a pureblood suits you, more than you’d like to admit.”

Having a drink in The Ritz, wasn’t framing Alya as a downtrodden, guilt-ridden, unemployed twenty-something, but wallowing in riches was a lot better than wallowing without it.

“You were never truly fulfilled accompanying me. You preferred to be alone, but you still needed me.”

_I needed a mother. I needed a family, and you turned me away._ Any of these truths would have triggered the waterworks and that was the last thing Alya wanted. “I might have needed you when I was baby, but you left me to starve, remember?” It was a low blow, but she wanted her to hurt too. It was common argument they would have. Alya thought she had forgiven her mother for abandoning her when she was a babe— until she decided to leave, again.

“I told you—I was depressed and alone. I had no idea how to raise a child." 

"I know." 

Vela swiped a hand over her countenance, dark circles hugging her eyes. “Merlin, Alya. Please. I can hardly sleep. I see you, and I remember him and—“

“If you want me to feel guilty. I do,” she said. Vela’s face appeared hopeful. _Is that what she wants? Grief? Guilt?_ “But you can't ask me to apologize for what I did. I can't." Alya had cried out the last of her tears months ago, and she refused to beg. She would not do it. Magnus would have ruined their lives. Hurt them. Killed her mother. Killed Alya. She wanted to, _needed_ to believe she had done the right thing.

Vela’s expression became troubled as if she saw a dark shadow hanging over her daughter. _‘Who are you?’_ Her eyes besought. 

“I don't know. I must have expected you to be suffering as I am, I should have known. Nevertheless, I have to go soon,” she shook her head. “We parted on bad terms, but I still care for you, Alya. That’s why I’m here. Magnus’ brother, Argus has been looking for him. He’s a dangerous man. A known dark wizard.”

Alya snapped to focus. _Enemies at every turn._ She was weary of it. _Will I need to kill again?_ She shuddered at the prospect.

“And you think he’ll come after me?”

“The only people alive who knows what happened is you and I,” she said, "I came here to warn you, to be careful. You’ll manage on your own, I’m sure," she said, cold as a grave.

Afterwards, Vela gave her a lukewarm goodbye. Alya sat alone. The ice in her drink melted, forming dew on her fingertips. Heaviness settled over her shoulders, emptiness yawned within her. When she was young, Alya had vehemently believed that her grandparents were wrong. Her mother did love her from the moment she was born, but she just didn’t know _how_ to love her at the time. Yet when it came to the moment she needed her. She was gone. Her mother was _afraid_ of her, _disgusted_ by her, as if she were some wretched thing. Her love, fabricated.

Everyone shied away from her. Fear in their eyes, hate in their hearts, mistrust in their words. But, Alya couldn’t even blame them for it.

It was her fault.

She had to get use to the idea that she would have to endure this for the rest of her life.

* * *

**_TOM_ **

The engagement party between Avery and the Aquilla girl was tonight. Tom disliked the pageantry of such affairs but it was exciting to manoeuvre the landscape of pureblood society. Yet even this could not stop Tom from thinking about Alya. His entire world was caught in the storm of her eyes. She was a skillful witch, capable of wandless magic. But if she had something to do with Magnus Skarsson's disappearance. Then she was his enemy. Simple as that. 

_Do you tell all your enemies your dirty secrets?_

‘ _My mother left me when I was born.’_ ‘ _Some of us fellow orphans weren’t so lucky.’_

Never in his entire life had he spoken about his mother to another living soul. His weak, undeserving-of-magic mother, entrapping his _Muggle_ father with a love potion. Then she’d died. Having him killed her. He killed her. She was gone. Leaving him nothing, leaving him at the mercy of the orphanage—and then twenty-four years later he told all of this to _Alya Moore?_

_Baring your soul, again, aren't you?_ His reflection taunted. Tom pulled lower eyelids down. _Am I possessed?_ Her serpent pin was still on the counter. He snarled and hefted it across the tiles.

_I should never have helped her. I should never have spoken to her._ It unlocked something deep within him that was proving impossible to force back in. Memories of his grey, pitiful past, the wartime rationing he suffered through, Dumbledore’s cold regard.

He took a deep breath and went to his bedroom. He kept his flat tidy at neurotic levels, his tailored clothing ironed, shoes black and polished. It was a habit, for he owned so few things growing up. What he did own, even if they were second hand, he valued and took great care of.

_Today, nothing I own is second-hand_ , he thought proudly. Excluding books, of course. Those were treasures no matter the condition. Getting dressed in a flat that was entirely his, helped to remind him that his grey past was long gone. 

* * *

_**ALYA** _

She had some trepidation over attending the party. Her entire Slytherin year would be there. But so was Willem and Alya refused to hide at home. She would show them she was alive and well. Not an easy target. Not some meek, scared little girl. Hopefully the hex she casted on Evander had struck and she could see her handiwork.

The fashion trend amongst witches was velvet and satin, but Alya intended to catch eyes. She chose a light blue gown of silk chiffon, with billowy sleeves, and a plunging neckline. Detailed embroidery of vines and baby's breath criss-crossed on the skirt. It was almost translucent in some areas in a tasteful way. Her hair fell in smooth curls, unbound tonight. She added pearls as finishing touches, obsessing over the symmetry of them. When done, she checked herself out in her mirror. _Perfect._

The Aquilla manor was breathtaking extravagance, with crenelated towers modelled after Tuscan castles. The sunset bathed it a red-gold. Witches and wizards were transported via carriages from the wrought iron gates, down the gravel thoroughfare, to the grand staircase of the manor. At first glance, she thought the carriages were pulling themselves. Alya stiffened when she saw otherwise. There was a creature at the helm. It was built like a horse, but it's long neck and head resembled a dragon. It’s wings were vast, black and leathery like a bats. It’s fleshless, lustrous body was covered with a glossy black coat, stretched over bone. The mane was black, it’s tail long and thin.

The footman had to wave his hand in front of her face to get her attention. She smiled graciously as he helped her into the carriage. The seats across from her were occupied by Willem’s cousins. Vibrant young ladies from Rome.

“Strange type of winged horse,” Alya remarked in Italian. “Winged horse? Where?” They asked. Judging from the obliviousness of the other guests, no one else noticed them. "You Aquilla's know how to throw a party, don't you?" She deflected, pointing to the manor. They _oohed_ and _aahed_ at the resplendence of it all. 

An eery feeling settled into her bones. That confirmed her initial suspicion. It was a threstral. They lived in illustrations to her. She never expected to see one in real life. Like the Grim, they meant one thing;

_Death._

The carriage halted in front of the grand staircase, lit with thousands of fairy lights like New Years Eve. She stayed back to observe the creature. Anyone would have mistaken her for basking in the sunset.

For all the doom and death the horses heralded, threstrals were gentle creatures. Tame. Otherwise, why would they be dragging the carriages? Alya ran her palm over its crest. It’s skin was smooth and thin, a touch slippery. She recalled a dusty page from _Fantastic Beasts._ _'Threstals are only visible to those who have seen death.'_

It stared at her with a milky white eye. _I know what you've done._ It seemed to say. 

A hoot of laughter made her glance over her shoulder. Tom Riddle stepped out of a carriage two ahead. Behind him was the hulking form of Mulciber muttering something funny that had Malfoy and a lady whom might’ve been a Shafiq--in tears. Their reputation was often put to the test, but there was no denying that Slytherins were were a classy, well-dressed bunch. There was a crowd between them but Riddle turned his head the moment she glanced. It was as if his spirit could sense her, as palpable as his was to her.

Alya had been cataloging the tenor of his moods. Something lit in his eyes despite his imperturbable features. Curiosity? Humor? Unless he could see the threstral too, she must look like a complete and utter _loon,_ stroking thin air. Embarrassed, she dropped her hand to her side. Some desperate part of her thought he would wave, greet her, grant her smile. He didn’t. Instead, Tom turned away, ascending the marble steps with his comrades. _I suppose his ‘heroics’ that day we were Willem’s benefit and not_ _mine._

_I am here for me, Riddle. Not you._ She thought. _You will not ruin my night._

* * *

**Thanks for stopping by everyone :) Please leave comments on how you find the story so far. Alya's acting very 'Slytherin' here. Next chapter we'll have the rest of the party and our mains interact. I hope you enjoy the descriptions of Alya's outfits, I'm a huge fashion nerd. It makes me so excited to look up evening gowns on Pinterest haha.**

**See you soon!**


	11. A Study of Tom Riddle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like this one! Hope you guys do too :)

**_TOM_ **

For an engagement party the Aquilla's were overdoing it, but they had to flout their immense wealth somehow. He'd grown up too poor to imagine how extravagant the actual wedding would be. Even if it was evening outside, the ceiling of the main hall was enchanted to form billowy white clouds streaked with golds and pinks, sliced through the middle by an azure blue sky. He half expected a flock of angels to descend on them. The giant chandelier above rotated gently like a crystal ball, reflecting rainbow discs across the marble floors. Garlands of blackthorn, hyacinths and hydrangeas snaked up gilded cornices and columns. House elves carrying refreshments and cloaks thrice their size scurried at the legs of glittering guests.

Tom caught snippets of conversations as he wove through; change in Ministry policies, a new addition to Hogwarts governors board, mingled with plenty of boasting and high-tinkling laughter. He stored what was important for later.

He saw the whip of a bright red tail across the floor, darting beneath robes. It was a salamander with eyes like coal. Tom summoned it to his palm with a mere thought. With a flick of his hand he put out the tiny fire it made on the tail of a dress before the witch noticed. “Flint! There you are,” gushed a flustered boy, barrelling towards him. The boy was short for his age, on the chubby side, blonde hair and grey eyes characteristically Moore.

Tom returned it to his outstretched palms. “I’m so sorry mister, thanks for finding him, he scampered off the moment we got here.” 

“Oisin, isn't it?"

“Y-yes." He stuttered, possibly afraid Tom would tell on him.

_Who's reckless idea was it to gift a boy a Fire Salamander?_ “Be careful with him or you’ll burn this entire place down.”

“He’s got a bit of a tummy ache,” Oisin hugged the salamander to his chest. “He must be hungry. There is a fire that way,” Tom showed him. “He’ll enjoy snacking on the burning logs in there.”

“Oh of course!” Oisin smacked his forehead, before hurrying off. “Grand! Thanks Mister,” 

He got a hold of Douglas and Carmilla, congratulating them. _Not that they had any choice in the matter_. He'd been told that arranged marriage couples eventually found love in their union. _Or resentment._ There was no one alive to force Tom to spend the rest of his life shackled to a complete stranger with those kinds of odds.

As they were being seated for dinner, was when Tom saw her properly.

His mouth went dry, and he lost all reason.

Alya was ethereal in pale blue diaphanous material, the colour complimenting the warm amber tones of her skin. The chiffon draped elegantly on the curves of her waist and hips, and swayed with a soft grace. When it caught the light, it was almost transparent! The fabric was tactfully sewn to leave most to the imagination, and Tom’s ran wild. Her hair was styled in gentle waves and pearl clips, he had the savage urge to pull them all out. She caught the oogling stares of several men in the room. Tom couldn’t blame them for it. She was enchanting, and it was pulling at his heart strings in an acutely painful tug. 

She sat across from Aquilla on the far side. He pretended to care about whatever Alessa Oakheart and Parkinson tittered on about through the gruelling ten course meal. The portions were small however, and Tom’s food tasted like boiled water as he watched them share secret smiles and laughs. What did Willem do to stop her attackers besides being utterly winded and useless? 

Alya cut her food in neat little princess bites. There was a trendy squid ink dish in the third course that tasted like well-seasoned rubber. From the tail of his eye, Alya nodded in staunch agreement at the first bite to a man next to her, _'Yes it_ _is very good,'_ he lip read—only for her to angle away and discreetly spit it out into her napkin. Tom almost choked on his wine. He didn’t know whether to be appalled at the break in etiquette or to laugh. 

He sought her after dinner, trampling over a dozen people to get to where he thought he saw her walk off to. Tom read that 'Alya' had several meanings; heavenly, sky, lofty, sublime. Those meanings never suited her more than it did then.

She sat on a loveseat with a glass of Firewhiskey like a bored Grecian goddess beneath the enchanted celestial sunrise. Oisin approached her with a girl in tow and a bunch of flowers they plucked from random bouquets. Alya smiled wide with a laugh he could not hear, happy to indulge the children. With a conductor’s flourish, the mismatched flowers wove and arranged into a flower crown for the girl. The children squealed in glee, sputtering thank you's and dashed off.

They shared something between them, even if Alya didn’t know it. They could both see threstrals. _Death’s many forms._ Tom had been unnerved to see the skeletal creature towing the carriages. It was an omen of death amongst wizard-folk, but it could mean death for any number of persons. Not specifically _his_ death. Still, Tom hesitated, watching her, recounting all the reasons he ought to remain right where he was—and then he did the opposite.

“Ms. Moore.” he smiled, a soft string quartet harmonizing in the background.

“Tom Riddle.” Her lashes were curled, dark and lustrous eyes peered up at him. “We do keep running into each other don’t we?” The lilt of her voice was unique; low, wry, musical. He could pick it up in a crowd of a hundred. 

“Are you well?”

“I am. Thank you,” she nodded, a model of courtesy. “Are you enjoying yourself then?”

“I must confess, I am not.”

“You’re too serious,” she smiled over the rim of her glass, her lips dark and full. “You’re allowed to enjoy things, you know.”

“I would, but I find the company to be lacking in any stimulation.”

“Then I’m sorry we’re boring you," she said quickly. 

“That notion most definitely excludes you, Ms. Moore.” He shifted a bit closer, admiring the poetic way her hair curled over a shoulder; so dark it drank up the light. “You’re breaking all your rules by talking to me.”

“You mean all the rules I gave you." 

_Insolence._ He didn’t mind it as much. Instead of fighting it, he could work with it. “I see. The thing is, you never spoke of consequences. Punishment for breaking these so called rules.”

“No, I didn’t." She smiled playfully. In a smooth spell, her whiskey glass _popped_ away. She leaned forward, threading her fingers and resting her chin on them, forehead creased in affectation of deep thought. “So what shall they be, hm? A mouth-sealing hex? Banishment? Drawn and quartered? A naked walk of shame?”

As damaging to his ego as she could be, he couldn’t help the smile feathering at his lips. “The range of punishment is too extreme. Is there no middle ground?”

She unthreaded her fingers and crossed her legs, the slit in her dress riding up to expose a tantalising stretch of smooth thigh. All of this a show for him. 

“Then I guess it depends on how well you treat me.”

Her sultry smile nearly undid him, but Tom was poised with a smooth rebuttal. “Then before you settle on a way to punish me for talking to you. I should tell you that you look very beautiful tonight.”

Alya blushed fiercely and Tom was dizzy at the sight of it. “Very tactful, Mr. Riddle.”

“How am I doing so far?”

“You’re doing well," she rested a cheek on her knuckles. "Go on. Keep the compliments coming, and I might reconsider.”

His mouth had formed a full-blown grin. Merlin. He felt feverish. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever felt a thrill like this before just by talking to someone. Let alone a mere slip of a girl. _No. A woman._ As much as he enjoyed how they danced with words, he had a better idea. “Whilst you’re being so generous letting me get away with this defiance. Would you like to dance?”

Tom was good, but he was never _this_ good. He never had to tone down his ego and pursue someone like this before. He was always the one being chased or supplicated to. He wasn’t one for quick banter either, but Alya’s character demanded it. Perhaps it was the fact that the entire room watched them, curious, or green with envy, and knowing she wouldn’t have responded to him otherwise. He turned his palm out to her, waiting. For a brief moment there was a flash of mistrust but she glossed over it and rose to him. 

“One dance.”

Tom tamped down the satisfied smile and swept them to the dance floor. He held their joined hands aloft for her to do a spin, her skirt billowing around her. Alya laughed. _Beautiful_. He caught her as she returned to his embrace and bumped lightly into his chest by accident, far too close for waltz decorum. Tom shivered and hoped she didn’t catch it. Her perfume was intoxicating; magnolias and citrus, mingled with cedar. An English garden with the spice of a souk. She placed a hand on his shoulder, and he held her waist. The fabric of her dress so thin, the heat of her seeped into his palm. He twirled them across the dance floor until she was breathless.

Alya stared up at him all the while with a little smile. He would be lying if he said he didn’t like seeing his reflection in her soft eyes. Abruptly, something over his shoulder stole it from him. He wanted to curse whatever it was.

“Evander, doesn’t look well," she remarked. 

He turned them and saw Travers, Louisa doting over him, his fiancée oblivious as to why he was sick. He was trussed up in dress robes, but remained white as a sheet, hair limp, even though a barber had clearly tried their best. It didn't matter that he was recovering from a curse, Evander would not miss Avery's engagement dinner, knowing Tom would be present too. 

“He’s taken ill.” _A fever,_ it nearly burst from him. 

"Not the doings of my hex, then." Alya frowned, troubled. “I suppose fate works in funny ways.”

_Does she suspect? She couldn’t. It would be circumstantial for her to think I had anything to do with it._ Thankfully she didn't ruminate on it too long. Tom noted that they were catching the inquisitive stares of several guests. Men and women. _Let them watch._

“I must tell Mr. Borgin what excellent customer outreach he has,” said Alya, focused wholly on him. “For the shop assistant to come all this way and to kindly sweep a lonely lady off her feet, 'saving' me in a dark alley too. I think you should demand a raise.” He caught the wryness of her tone. 

“I’m only doing my job,” Tom parried effortlessly and lowered his voice so only she could hear; “and it pleases me to please you.” 

Alya blushed, the hand on his shoulder squeezed ever-so-slightly. Heat settled low in his groin. Her lips parted, he watched the tendons in her neck catch at his words.

“Although, something tells me you’re quite comfortable in your own skin, alone or otherwise," he carried on as if he'd said nothing. "Most people aren’t.”

Her mouth was pressed together, trying not to bite away at her bottom lip. "Have you been studying me, Tom?” 

“How could I not?” He countered, as if the study of Alya Moore was as necessary as the alphabet. Surely, the use of his first name was not a slip up this time. How could they go back to the formality from before?

“Well I’ve been studying you too," she said with a defiant edge.

Tom looked at her closely. They spun like two cyclones. Closer they came, the bigger their eyes got. “Have you, now?”

She gave a wicked little smile. “How could I not?”

That delicious thrill licked up his spine. He leaned down a touch more, until he could see the tiny diamonds the chandelier made in her irises. His eyes darted to her inviting mouth. “A master of observation, are you?” 

Perhaps he should be more concerned to be watched like that, but in that moment, he didn’t care. She bestowed him with one of those looks; soft, playful and intense all at once, a single candle lit in the darkest hollows of his soul.

“You're an interesting specimen."

“And what exactly is your interest in me?”

“It’s boundless,” she smiled enigmatically. “I think it’s fascinating how differently people act when observed compared to when they completely unobserved. My grandmother used to say that people are locked chests."

“Eloquent analogy. So, what are my keys?”

“I haven’t figured it out, yet.” Her gaze softened like a gentle snowfall on Christmas day, whatever he said struck her in a special type of way. She watched him as if she could see something in him that he had not discovered yet. For a blissful moment, Tom liked the idea that she was dancing with him, for him. Not because she wanted his power, or feared him.

He crushed that idea. _Fluffed up nonsense,_ a vile part of him sneered. Whatever she saw in him, that was nothing compared to what he would inevitably become. “Mankind observed and unobserved," he trailed on. "A colorful example would be your vigorous 'enthusiasm' with the squid in the third course.” 

“What ever do you mean? It was delicious.”

“Lies. I saw you spit it out.”

She laughed. “Don’t tell Madonna Aquilla. I can’t get kicked out of another one of these.” The laugh continued into a hum, her eyes closed. He wanted her to hum into his mouth.

“Do you miss your grandma?” Since she was testing different keys on him; of course he would do the same to her.

“I do,” she admitted, remotely. “But please don’t tell Guinevere that." She didn't elaborate. _Touchy subject, then._

“How are the fire curses coming along?” At this point they weren’t doing a waltz, merely swaying to soft orchestra music as if it bound them together with golden threads. Her head came up to below his chin, his palm nestled at the crook of her waist; she fit rather well against him. She explained, disgruntled that it was not going as planned, diving into detail about it. Enraptured, he listened to her describe the intricacies of every sensation, every pulse of magic in her veins, all her difficulties controlling the daemons. “It’s like watching the cycle of life and death over and over again. They _fight_ me. Fight to be freed,” she said, exasperated. “I perused the second edition of—“

“I could show you how to control them.” It swooshed passed his lips without any thought.

“Really? Is being a teacher one of your talents?" She was good at that too, feeding him more questions instead of answers. 

“I like to think so." This was a touchy subject for him. “I applied to Hogwarts to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, but Headmaster Dipper said I was too young.” _Dumbledore probably had something to do with it too, since he despises me so._

She quirked a brow. “You actually want to teach?”

“Is that so surprising?”

“A little. But perhaps it was for the best that you didn’t end up there."

Tom scowled. “And why is that?”

“Well, I think you wandering the halls as a professor, teaching there, would have distracted the students. They wouldn't have learnt a thing." 

“How so?”

When she laughed at his innocent confusion, he caught onto her flirtatious remark. Her laugh was rousing, it had a little hiccup at the end. She was too endearing for her own good. The song ended but they didn’t let go. They stood in a moment that was boundless and still as if they were the only two living souls in the entire room. Tom didn't want it to end. They could go somewhere, have a drink-

“Alya?"

His plans derailed in the form of Willem Aquilla. He stood adjacent, waiting. “May I have the next dance?” 

Just like that. It was over. The endearing smiles and looks no longer belonged to Tom, the weight of her attention directed elsewhere. He reluctantly let go as he felt her loosening. Nothing more embarrassing than clinging like a desperate fool. She joined hands with Willem. “Thank you for the dance, Alya." Her name stroked over his tongue. She smiled, dipped gracefully and was led away. His hands and chest tingled with her lingering warmth; his empty arms as weightless as driftwood. Aquilla whispered something into her ear, the ease of which her laughter and smiles came around the other man made his insides roil.

* * *

_**ALYA** _

She downed a glass of champagne, absolutely parched. Who knew waltzing required so much energy? Alya had gone through four dances with Willem as he was so eager to delve into all juicy gossip and rant about his parents and Douglas. He left her alone now, dancing with his sister. She idly watched other couples dance and saw Riddle with an entourage of Slytherins; namely fucking Alessa Oakheart and fucking Louisa Choubert. Her nails dug crescents into her palms. Irked, she swiped another glass of champagne. Travers looked so bloody ill, it made her feel sick too. A tiny morsel of sympathy made her wish someone would tell him to go home. She knocked that notion aside, whatever ghastly stomach flu he contracted. He deserved it. 

Except...he looked like she did when she recovered from _Chaleur de sanguis._ Pale, limp hair, exhausted, but ten time worse. An unsettling knot formed in her throat considering the possibilities. 

Leon Rosier deposited her cousin nearby after dancing, giving her a farewell peck on the cheek. Alya and Leon shared a glare before he departed. _Yes, that's right, scurry away now._

“Evening, cuz." 

“Oh my,” her cousin turned and nodded admiringly. “Who is tailoring your dresses?”

Alya smiled. “You look lovely, too." Her cousin twirled for her, she wore a gold satin gown with a square neckline that hugged her trim waist and pushed her breasts up, an eye-bogglingly large sapphire necklace-a gift from Leon-graced her neck. “Is Aunt Lacerta going to continue giving me those death glares?” Her aunt observed them stridently from the other side of the hall as she chatted with Rosier’s mother, keeping a firm grip on little Oisin’s hand.

“She’s...wary of you.”

“Why? Worried I'll corrupt you?" 

Guinevere waved her hand unconcernedly. “It’s the usual stuff.”

That was not reassuring at all. Alya turned to her. “Are we all right?” She had not seen her since Lestrange's.

She sighed tiredly. “Yes.” The simple answer settled it. Her posture eased, blue eyes gentler. Her cousin surprised her. No matter how much they bickered, they found a way to live with one another.

"So you and Rosier are just doing cheek kisses, or have you been more adventurous than that?" 

Guinevere went scarlet. "Merlin, keep your voice down!" Alya snorted into her palm. "Well you're not going to chat to your mother about it, so you can talk to me, if you want." 

"If I need to. I will, but not now." They spoke of easy topics; the manor, Oisin's mischief, how Alya settled into the Suffolk house. "Honestly, I wanted to look away when he danced with you.”

“Willem? He fancies you, he told me.”

She flushed but shook her head. “Not Willem. Tom. He _looks_ at you. Like he’s dying of thirst in a desert and you’re water.” Alya swallowed, but played it off coolly. “He's...sweet." _And so many other things._ "But what about you? I’ve never been a situation where not one, but _two_ men are after me. Leon has been throwing Willem looks that are practically homicidal, the poor boy can't handle that aggression. They’ll be duelling for your hand in marriage next.” They giggled like thirteen-year-old girls again, it was nice.

Rose Richards past them. She was younger, but she had been brilliant at Potions and was bumped into an advanced class with Alya. “Rose! Come over here." They hugged. Guinevere, who rarely interacted outside of her social circle, stood in painstaking politeness as Alya introduced them. Despite the fact her cousin nearly had an apoplexy interacting with a Muggle-born; the Moores were good conversationalists. As they chatted, Alya smelt smoke, it was coming from the floor, specifically Rose's dress. Alya gasped and all three ladies cried out in panic. 

* * *

_**TOM** _

“Mudblood slut,” Helena Greengrass sneered, tidily concealing her wand. It probably wasn't even her wand, she was sly enough to use another's so the spell couldn't be traced to her. Tom was aghast at their boldness to set someone's dress on fire in such a public manner. 

“A muggle-born shouldn’t even be at a party like this. I can't believe Madonna Aquila allowed it,” stated Alessa Oakheart crisply, unaffected by the chaos on the far side of the hall. Rose worked in the ministry and was invited out of respect for her station, her dress tail was blackened until mid calf. Wandlessly, Alya had siphoned water from a vase to douse the flames. She threw them a dirty look as she accompanied a stunned Rose to find a bathroom.

“Bloody show-off,” Oakheart glared at the back of Alya’s head. Tom couldn’t tell them to back off, thus he simmered in silent fury. He was still annoyed with them for discussing Myrtle Warren in front of him, even though they had no idea of the truth of the basilisk. Besides, he shouldn't care. Helena's trick was directed at Richards not Alya. She was only next to her, this had nothing to do with her.

But to Tom, it did.

“Moore’s no better than Richards. I heard she only shags Ravenclaw boys,” Louisa voiced out. _Does she ever shut up?_ Travers looked like he wanted to die, not daring to meet Tom’s burning gaze. Victor sipped his drink nervously. His followers had obediently erased any thoughts of Alya Moore from their minds, thanks to Tom’s warning, but he couldn't silence everyone. 

“Wasn’t it the Gryffindor Quidditch Team?” Remarked Benyamin Shafiq, earning a laugh from the girls. _Bloody hypocrites, the lot of them._ “That’s why she took your eye out, Rosier?” Benyamin clapped Victor’s back. “Cuz she wouldn’t let you have a go?” To his credit, Rosier did look like he was suffering from dragon pox in that instance. The repulsive Shafiq boy wasn’t part of the Knights, so Tom couldn’t rebuke him for the crass remark, even though he wanted to curse him bloody for it.

“The eye-patch is an improvement, I’d say,” muttered Leon, and everyone laughed at his expense, except Tom. Victor cracked a wobbly smile.

Tom had been so engrossed with her loveliness it hadn’t struck him that he was going to have to _do_ something about Alya Moore, whether he wanted too or not. She’d come out of nowhere. That in and of itself was cause for suspicion. She had something to do with Magnus Skarsson’s disappearance. Was she capable of killing? Was she conspiring against him? Was her goal to kill him? 

In this paranoid musings he could only be certain of one thing; people were never as they seemed at first glance. He would uncover the truth of it all. He always did.

. . .

Alya infuriatingly stuck by the side of the Muggle-born for the next hour. It took a singular moment of distraction from a pair of Aquilla’s pretty cousins and he lost her in the crowd. Cursing under his breath, he wandered onto the estate grounds. He caught a glimpse of her on a path far ahead. Tom followed, keeping a fifty feet distance. The manicured hedge gardens were warmed. Vespertine flowers relaxed their petals and released a delicate aroma woven with the memory of the day. He stayed hidden on an adjacent path, walking beneath an archway with a ceiling of moonflowers. They were precious. He recalled from Herbology that they only bloomed one night a year. It was an easy thing to reach and pluck one, twirling its stem between his thumb and forefinger.

The path was dimly lit every few paces by lanterns. He came about the stables. The gate was locked and the first few charms did not work. He aimed at the ground and flew over the fence, landing on silenced footsteps. There were large shadows within the stalls. _Winged horses_ ; their coats shone like slick oil and necks bulged with corded muscle. They shook their manes, and whinnied softly as he passed. It was dark. As much as he blinked to let light in, he could easily be walking straight off a cliff without knowing it. Tom tried to get his bearings. Alya was nowhere to be seen.

The point of a wand dug into his spine.

Fingers bunched his robe and spun him around. His back forcefully slammed against a wall. The wand tip rammed beneath his left rib, her palm gripping his chest. He was at the mercy of her vengeful gaze. It took her a moment to recognise him in the shadows. 

_“Tom?”_ She seemed relieved, the pressure of the wand didn’t let however. “What are you doing here?” She growled. “How did you get in? Are you following me?”

Her magic electrified the air. He was intensely aware of the placement of her wand, reminding him of his horcruxes. That phantom pain bloomed and ached and his vision was doused in red. _Fuck._ She was fast. The last time anyone cornered him like this was when he was a boy. Afterwards he would _never_ let anyone come this close unless they planned to lose a limb. He longed to use a manoeuvre he learnt in the orphanage to free himself and pin her to wall instead, remind her whom she dealt with. 

“There’s no need for this.” He gritted and pushed the wand aside. She yielded, shifting only a step away. 

The tip of her tongue darted out to wet her bottom lip. "Did I scare you? You know I wouldn't have done anything, right?" She slowly ran the wand tip down his chest. By stark contrast, it's touch was soft yet firm as if she imagined it to be her fingers undoing his buttons, one by one. The tension between them hung heavy like a dark fragrance. 

Tom struggled to maintain his scowl, the sensations too much for him. A scoffing laugh crept to his throat. "I could have hurt you, you know." 

She smiled smugly. "I’ve defied the odds enough. And you’re forgetting that I was the one that cornered you." He wanted nothing more than to pin her to wall and fuck her senseless until she cried out his name, it took extreme restraint to stop himself.

"So what is it then? Why are you here? What do you want?" She demanded, brash as usual, dropping the wand.

His eyes narrowed at her. “Which question do you want me to answer first?”

She folded her arms with an accusatory look. “Did you tell your little pack to set Rose's dress on fire?”

Moore was good at answering questions with more questions. She was far too direct for his taste. _But why can't I stop?_ But Tom understood why she was acting like that in this instance. Travers and Rosier’s attack put her on edge. “I had no part in that inane prank," he retorted, hating that every inhalation made more of her perfume dull his senses, until he was in a mind-numbing fog of this ache for her he could not understand. He needed a theoretical cold shower. “That had nothing to do with me. Trust me." 

“Then what do you want?” She asked, firmly. 

His licked his dry lips, getting a grip on himself. “About that favour you asked for. I want to help.”

“...Favour? The Pensieve?” He nodded. "But you said it was sold.”

“I lied.”

Alya's mouth dropped open and gave him a reproachful look. "And here I expected better from you." 

_Who does she presume to be? Dumbledore?_ He despised it when she thought of him poorly. When had her opinion of him started to matter? The ache of his torn soul turned into a throb. “It was your aunt," he said, grinding his teeth. "She told me to keep it from you. But I realised that was wrong.”

Her shoulders fell; she withdrew completely, stepping into a shaft of moonlight. “Lacerta told you to do that?” Her eyes were whirring to puzzle this revelation out. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“I’ll bring you to the shop and show you. You can use it for what you need.”

She gave a ponderous tilt of her head, remained guarded. “And what’s the catch?”

“No catch.” He went to her. “Come on, Alya. Have you considered that I’m a lot nicer than you think?”

She chewed on her lip as she thought on it, but slowly, conceded. There was no way she could refuse this generous offer from kind, endearing, shop boy. How he loved being right. This victorious feeling was short-lived, however. He tried not to think about her glowing moonlit skin, the expanse of breastbone her dress displayed, or how the soft sighs of blue made her look like a sea nymph, come to drag him down to her watery castle.

"Shall we?" Instead of an elbow, he offered his hand. He shouldn’t have, because using magic around her and the skin-to-skin contact was too much for him to bear the last time. Tom forced himself to bear it now, but his body betrayed him by reacting the same; a jolt of liquid fire through his veins, the howling within him screaming louder. Her palm was warm and small as they joined his, and her grey eyes never left him as they disappeared into the night in a whirl of darkness.

* * *

**Thank you for all your lovely comments, I really appreciate it. I realise that fancy seated dinners probably don't have dancing after, but we're rolling with it okay. I love writing from Tom's perspective, it's a challenge to strike the right balance with him. He's kind of losing it lol. Our couple will be alllll alone next chapter. No distractions! See you soon :)**


	12. Revelations

**_ALYA_ **

Tom's eyes remained plastered to hers when they arrived in Knockturn Alley, their joined hands delicately aloft as if he was leading her to the dance floor again. He let go as if she used a stinging hex on him, his fist clenching at his hip. He turned from her in a long stride. Alya stowed her wand away on her garter belt. A dodgy group wearing hoods leered at her but a hostile look from Tom silenced them. It was bloody cold in London and she was dressed in heels and silk chiffon. Alya shivered without the warmed gardens of the Aquilla estate.

He glanced and saw her rubbing her arms. He waited, and swept one side of his robes over her shoulders, enclosing her in his warmth. She huddled against him gratefully. The robes smelt like him, and his palm splayed gently on her back to lead her. 

Tom disabled the anti-thieving wards of the shop and used his personal key to open the back door. They entered beside the black fireplace. The gargoyles seemed to gnash their teeth at her, and the dark artefacts on display were more sinister in the dim light. He removed his robe from her. It was still chilly inside and goosebumps peppered over her skin. 

“Come with me.”

She followed him to a dark hallway. With a snap of his fingers the candles in the wall sconces lit the hall in a reddish din like the inside of a kraken's belly. There were several doors along the hall and one at then end. Alya paused, fear clenching her heart. She left a party, _alone_ with a man she scarcely knew, whom she believed could be dangerous, and no one knew her whereabouts. For something that may not even be real? _Rather stupid aren't you child?_ Her dead grandma chided in her head. She should just let him practice the Killing Curse on her at this rate. 

If he wanted to kill her, he would have done so already, and she was not without her own tricks up her sleeve. Alya was all for saving her own skin, but she did not want to have to kill again and _definitely_ not Tom Riddle. Besides being his frustratingly hot and cold, brilliant, handsome self, he has not done anything to make her believe he would actually harm her. As she weighed her options, he watched her in anticipation of her next move.

“Are you all right?”

Alya swallowed her trepidation. "Yes I'm fine," she nodded. She made sure to lag a few paces behind him, it'd give her enough space to cast a Jelly-leg jinx and make a run for it if she necessary. The image of Riddle with wobbly legs like a spider on ice skates was rather amusing. Leave it to Alya to find humour instead of caution at times like these.

The objects in the storeroom were distinctly curated for a high-class clientele; jewelled chandeliers, paintings, and sculptures to decorate noble drawing rooms. There was a tall and triangular oak cabinet in the center. Alya doubted it was as unassuming as it looked. “What is this?”

“A vanishing cabinet,” said Tom. “We don’t know where its twin is.” He unlatched a narrow storage nook and pulled the Pensieve basin out, they stood on opposites sides of it. The water within it rippled when it should be perfectly still. It wasn't relief, but a knot in her chest loosened to see he was not lying to her about the existence of the Pensieve, or was presently trying to murder her. 

“As you know, it’s broken. A _reparo_ isn’t going to fix it.” He produced a roll of parchment from his robes and she plucked it from him. “But I took the liberty of researching it for you," his mood picked up with a quiet excitement. “Objects this old can only be repaired in their original language, except I’ve never seen runes like this before. At first I wasn’t certain of several markings near the base of it. It’s worn with age.” He knelt to show her. “It’s a 16th century Pensieve and since you have forefathers from Sweden I thought it was Dalecarlian.”

“I thought so too,” she said faintly. They shared a profound look. He could be very endearing when he wanted to, couldn't he? He stood, his black curls shifting.

“Turns out its Celtic. Which should have been obvious, but when I get invested in something I tend to delve too deeply,” he smiled, a beautiful soft one. “Nevertheless, I tracked down an ancient Celtic translations scroll in the public library in London, that sent me to Belfast to purchase it. The journey was worth it, since it was of great help. I ran through a hundred and seventy six iterations of the spell to assess the Pensieve’s response until I landed on that one.” She really liked seeing the clever and inquisitive side to him. It would have been nice to have gotten to know him during Hogwarts, they could have been friends. 

Except, Tom Riddle had his little gang, and would not have given her a slice of his precious time back then. Suddenly, he was doing all of this for her? 

“I haven’t tried it yet. But I thought you could do the honours.”

Alya skimmed the incantation, his elegant cursive notes crammed into the corners. It was bloody good work; thorough, detailed. She did not expect anything less. His face watched her expectantly. “Thank you Tom, really, for doing all of this when you didn't have to. It’s incredibly thoughtful,” she smiled, warm and heartfelt. That unguarded smile flickered across his face, while hers went crimson as she lifted her skirt to mid-thigh, and pulled her wand from the garter belt. “What?” She contended at his raised brows. “My options are limited. Do you see anywhere else I can keep it on a dress like this?" 

“No,” his voice was rough, as his eyes wandered, slow, and deliberately down the length of her body, then rose it's attention back to her. “But you won’t hear any complaints from me.”

For a second she wanted him to run his hands down her body, as heat from her head dripped down to her abdomen. _Just get what you came here for and leave, Alya,_ she reminded herself before she could get dazzled by his charm. She gathered her hair and tossed it over her shoulder, wishing he would leave the room. Things were inherently different between them now, and she could not help but feel anxious. She often underestimated herself, if she did it wrong, she couldn’t bear his arrogance if he had to take over. Tom was also looking at her differently. Not with his usual cold regard as if she were an ant beneath his microscope, but in the manner Guinevere had said; ' _Like he’s dying of thirst in a desert and you’re water._

“I wish you wouldn't look at me like that."

“Like what?" 

“You're staring and I can't focus."

Amusement twinged his mouth. "I'll look away if you insist." 

"Ugh, nevermind."

Blushing, Alya cupped both sides of the basin, shutting her eyes. The heaviness of his gaze blanketed her skin and she wandered what he saw in her in that moment. She took a deep breath, focused, and muttered the incantation. With a scrape of stone on stone the Pensieve righted itself and the water glowed softly, lit from within, a a brow of fine mist above it. She beamed at Tom excitedly. Alya removed a charm from her bracelet, which expanded into the vial. She emptied the silvery strands into the basin, her gut twisting with anticipation. “Well, here goes nothing.”

She briefly registered the swell of hunger in Tom’s eyes before she plunged her head inside the memories.

. . .

Alya's hands were translucent, she peered down, her entire body had taken the same effect. She stood in her grandma's bedroom, everything was dimmer and murky as if they were beneath the sea. 

_"Alya. If you're watching these I must be dead."_ Her grandmother's memory-self sat at a dresser in front of an ornate mirror.

"Grandma, what-how-?" 

_"Pay attention, child."_

Her tone was like a smack of a wand against Alya's wrist. This was a window into the past. A dream within a dream. Her grandma could not answer her. She shut up, dutifully watching the memory unfold. Her grandmother's silver hair was limp, skin greyish and sickly, but she remained to the point and stern, graceful even in her slow decline. 

_"Now child, I understand that it has never been easy between us, a tenous love at best."_ She immediately wanted to argue but she held her tongue to concentrate. _"But we saw potential in you, your grandpa and I, I wanted you to embrace it."_ Constantina's hazel eyes were dull with age, but still had a sharpness to them. She had them trained at a point Alya tried to meet them as if they were talking in real life. _"You made a grave mistake running away to follow your mother. I never trusted that woman. But life's lessons cannot be learnt without it's downfalls."_ Her grandma picked up the silver hairbrush, preparing the vial the memory strands would be stored in. 

_"Mine is a blood curse. Virestaerium. M_ _y memories run from me, and I don't recognise my own grandchildren, soon I will not recognise myself. Muggles label it as 'dementia'. You die from two deaths, one of the mind and another of the body. There was-is no cure to it."_ She gave a disdainful snort. _"The only good thing Vela ever did was deny you from the genes that would have succumbed you to this illness. Intermarrying between the sacred Twenty-eight. We orchestrated our own downfall."_ She coughed and coughed for a while, until Alya thought she would never recover. Except technically.. she never did.

_"In addition to my mind failing me, so are my lungs. In the time's I forget, Lacerta takes her advantage of our family name. I try to write and hide it to read again later. I had to quickly make this memory during my lucid state, they get shorter and shorter with each day. Merlin, Alya. Do not let her destroy us."_

Alya felt light-headed. Questions and questions piled up in her. Suddenly the floor quavered, and Alya tried to grip onto the bedpost but to her horror her hand went through it. She grabbed for her wand, but it wasn't with her. She was powerless in this place. Powerless and alone. Cracks formed on the walls, the ceilings, sand pouring in through each one, all going straight through her but spared her grandma. Her grandmother was tracing something on parchment. It was a constellation, _Serpens._ She had drawn it hundreds of times on the parchment and even scratched it into the wood of the dresser. Alya could not grasp the significance of it all. 

She spoke more urgently. "As _you can see, I don't have much time before my mind tucks me away again. You must be asking why I did all this._ _Lacerta's children are not Kelwyn's. I am certain now. We are all fools for allowing her deception. Your own mother visited me recently, you were not with her, I don't know why. But she finally deigned to share that she did marry Micah, in her own twisted way, the customs she undertook were foreign to us."_

Alya's breath past open lips. Her knees were unstable as if she were a newborn fawn. Her head felt tight, and her throat was closing in on itself. _Liar_ she wanted to yell. Sand rained down on her from the cracks, pilling and pilling into dunes. She sunk in the middle of it, desperately trying to grasp at threads of truth.

_"I believe Vela used something evil to manipulate my poor boy to follow her to his death. She wanted power in our blood."_ Her grandma's eyes burned with spite, sadness, and vengeance for the son she lost. _"You are the heir, child. It is my deepest regret that I could not look upon your face and tell you that I am sorry I did not discover this sooner. You have a duty, to fulfill your birthright."_

The ground shook with such violence, paintings were thrown off the walls. Constantina eyed this commotion with grim acceptance. With her frail, trembling hand, she traced more frantically on the parchment. _"You will find more answers here."_ The mirror burst into shards, the furniture disintegrated into plumes like black ink in water.

Somehow, Alya knew it was almost over. She raised one leg and another, rushing to see what her grandmother had drawn and memorising it, for her very life and sanity depended on it. Then her grandmother was gone. Black ink rippled from Alya's fingertips and chest, and she was dragged bodily out of the memory. 

. . . 

She collapsed rearwards, landing unceremoniously on a stack of books, frantically patting down her torso to check that she was not missing any limbs. She was breathing hard, staring wildly, unsure of where she was. The only thing that made sense in the dimly lit room was Tom Riddle's wide-eyed expression.

“Alya?" He pulled her up by her wrists to standing. An odd thing, that Tom saying her name was what grounded her back to reality. "What happened? What did you see?”

The truth flooded her as if she'd jumped into a cold lake. She fisted her trembling hands. “She-she lied to me. They lied to me.” 

“Your grandmother? What did they lie to you about?”

“Everything.” She dragged in a shaky breath. “She's manipulating me still. I don’t know what to do. Fucking hell." Alya leaned on the cabinet and wiped her hands over face, her mind straggling to fit the pieces together, anger mounting at the deception. "I can't believe this."

She had endured being shoved to the fringes of their society, verbally and physically attacked. Such misery _for nothing._ What did her grandmother want to achieve through her scheming, because she saw 'potential' in Alya. This was what she had left behind for her in will? A shitty thing to inherit. Not even a measly 'goodbye, I love you?' The old woman was dead and she left her with a mountain of responsibility. ' _Fulfil your birthright.'_ Controlling her from the grave, ordering her to simply forgive the torment, the loneliness, as if her entire life was a giant misunderstanding.

_A mistake. My existence is a mistake._ Vela knew the truth and hid it from her. What evil did her mother use on her father to chase power? What was she? An unwanted child? A child born of rape? 

Alya choked on an angry sob, and tears pricked her eyes. She wanted to scream until her throat was raw. "All these years. The scorn, the expulsion, running away. For nothing, for it all to be a lie." The jarring truth of it was that things were so much easier when she believed she was nothing. She stared at a crack in the ceiling, overwhelmed with emotions, hatred for her grandmother, disgust at her mother, grief for the father she never knew-

"I understand." 

She tilted her head to stare at him through hazy eyes. "I'm sorry, Tom. I don't think you do." 

"But I do." 

"You've had the truth kept from you for your entire life? Until you believed that you were something you were not?”

“Yes." He stated. "I have." 

"Right, I forgot. You mustn't have known you were a wizard until you were eleven." Yet Alya had a sense it was more than that. He was built of so many locked chests of secrets, wasn't he? “Or was it someone else that lied to you, too?” 

His brows knitted together, naked longing in his eyes, like he wanted to spill all of it to her. “It doesn’t matter." He averted his gaze. The first time he ever purposefully chose not to look at her. "They were inconsequential in the end."

"Then I'm sorry they hurt you, Tom," she said, a swell of empathy for him. She had never met anyone else who had grown up parentless. That need to reach out to him so that they may find comfort together felt foolish, but she could not help it, no matter how hard she tried to keep shards closed over her heart. "Who told you were you a wizard?"

He seemed to debate whether to tell her or not, but he did, but he wasn't pleased. "Dumbledore."

"I-I can't imagine being a magical child in a world where no one understood me. You didn't deserve that. No one does."

She did not care that she overstepped, it was worth it. His facade cracked, just a bit. "I don't need your pity." But he didn't say it like a curse, it was a plea. Plea for her to stop. 

"It's not pity." _Slytherin's always so proud._ "You said you understood about being lied to, and I understand a little of what it's like to be abandoned. Is my empathy so terrible to you?" Some emotion she could not place feathered jaw. "So, what did you do these people who lied to you?”

“I destroyed them." His mouth pressed into a hard red line. The intensity of his gaze made her want to look away but she dug her nails into her thigh and forced herself not to. His eyes searched for a reaction.

"I'm sorry it came to that." 

“It doesn't unsettle you?" 

How could she judge another's severity when she was capable of the same? Alya learnt that the hard way when she killed a man. "It doesn't, because I've learnt that destruction and self-destruction can go hand in hand." He wasn't pleased with that either but said nothing. She leaned her head against the cabinet, trying to be rational. Nothing was set in stone yet. Her life was still hers, and no one could change that. “Why did you help me, Tom?”

“Because I wanted to." The mask was gone, every emotion plainly written across the surface. 

"That's all? Or are you lying to me, again?" 

Tom drew tentatively closer, as if he was giving her every chance to move away. She didn’t. His eyes darkened as they roamed her face, eyelids heavy and long lashes brushing the tops of his porcelain cheeks. "No. I wanted to." She was pinned beneath the weight of his heated stare. “Because ever since I met you, I've wanted to do this." Alya stopped breathing as his hand reached up, sweeping down her jaw, light as fairy-wings. His touch was hot in the cold room. It trailed up, brushing aside a wayward strand of hair from her temple, then arched her cheekbone. Every soft sensation, blinding and killing her. 

Her pulse was drumming faster and faster, heat pooling low. The pad of his finger traced her cupid’s bow, and then pressed a little harder on her bottom lip, an artist teasing the first strokes of his painting. Alya wanted to ruin him and suck his fingers into her mouth. Give in. It would be so easy to spring up on her tip-toes to kiss him, forget everything she had seen in the memories and lose herself in his warmth. 

Instead, and not without regret, Alya ducked her head away from his embrace. “I can’t do this, Tom," she whispered, and drew from him, flushed and dizzy. It wasn't right. Her entire life had been shattered in the course of five minutes and she needed to put the pieces back together, find truth in her grandma's raving memories. She ran her fingers through her hair and they snagged on the pearl clips. She headed for the door.

“I'm sorry, I need to get out of here.”

“I can’t let you go.”

Alya stiffened, the hairs on the back of her neck standing with bone-chilling unease. She turned around. “And why not?”

“I know you’ve done something. Something awful.”

“Are you joking?” Her grip tightened on her wand. Her patience was threadbare and she despised being toyed with. “You hold back every single time from me, like you’re afraid. Then you go accusing me of -what? A crime? You can’t even tell me what this ‘something’ is!"

Where once there was openness, it was replaced with ice; cold, and biting. “Magnus Skarsson.”

Her mind exploded with expletives. Did Argus Skarsson send him? Was he here to make her answer for her crime? Kill her? She struggled to maintain impassivity in her tone; 

“Am I supposed to know that name?" 

“You know it," he repeated, viciously determined to get an admission out of her. Her hatred for him burned anew. He took a step in her direction but didn't come any nearer. Alya wanted to lift her wand and run but nothing would look more cowardly than that. She had been raised by Lady Constantina, she could handle a few hard-hitting questions. 

"He's missing," his eyes narrowed. "I think you had something to do with it. If you could cooperate and tell me, it would be so much easier." 

“I don’t know who that is, and I do not appreciate being toyed with, Riddle." 

“You can't lie to me. Didn’t I already tell you, that every thought of yours is written so plainly on your face?”

Alya had suspected Tom to be hiding more than he let on and here it was. How could she believe she could get away with murder? She wanted to run her head into a brick wall, she had been so blind and stupid. But she did not need to flee or panic or admonish herself. Hadn't she defeated Inferi before? Hadn't she shown him that she was not to be fucked with when she exploded with wandless magic? These were just suspicions. Accurate ones, damn him. But he had _nothing,_ he was trying to coax a reaction from her. Instead of Alya breaking down in guilt, she flared with anger. 

“You are so clever, Tom, bravo," Alya gave a mocking clap. She took a step to him, and another. “So you lure me here under the guise of helping me and when I don’t give you what you want, you make baseless accusations, with no proof.”

His eyes narrowed to slits. “Do you really want to make that gamble?”

When Alya was threatened, she was ruthless. No matter what she believed in her heart, her rage would overtake it, and she had every intent to inflict soul-deep wounds. The demons in the back of her head leaped in excitement.

“I don't know why you would believe _I_ had anything to do with this. But think carefully here, Tom, of whom you are accusing of this supposed crime," she said, shrewdly. "No matter what they say of me, I’m still a Moore. I have the noble blood that you love so much. If we were ever to face the Wizengamot, who are _you_ against _me?"_ She tilted her chin defiantly. "A _half-blood_ shop boy with a filthy Muggle last name?”

That unlocked the the depths of his rage, his eyes blazing red with it. _“You_ insolent fucking-"

“I’ll show you insolence!" 

Their eyes locked, a storm and darkness, fire and fire. The heat of their anger and magic turned the room into a furnace, permeating their clothes. Tom hissed through bared teeth, the tension between them wrung taut and no way to release it.

“You've always had a problem with me, haven't you? We’ll settle this now. A duel.”

A sharp laugh and dangerously sly look came over Tom, punctuated by dark arrogance. "A duel? You have no idea whom you’re challenging, do you?”

“You should be more concerned about your own skin. We won't do it here."

"You can take me wherever you'd like." A taunting grin curled his lips, her cheeks heated at the double meaning and the images it conjured. He leaned down until his mouth was inches from hers. "And what reward do I get if I win?" 

Alya reared away, cursing herself. There was nothing soft or teasing in his gaze. It was a feral and restless beast hiding behind his mask, never far from being unleashed, but she would not change her mind now. "When _I_ win you will back off, flee to wherever you came from, and I will never have to see you again. Moore ancestral hall, don't be late." 

* * *

_**TOM** _

A headache pounded at his temples. He'd been so tactless! This is what happened when he personally dealt with dissidents to his plans as Dark Lord: utter chaos. It was his own fault. In his attempt to unlock her chests, learn of her secrets, she had hammered through his own without him even realising it. When she had warmly, and purely thanked him for finding the repairing spell, it had been game over for him. He nearly told her about the Gaunts for fuck's sake! Because he wanted to! As if finally after yelling from the bottom of a well for his entire existence, someone had heard him, and he was woefully underprepared for it. Alya had driven him through ceaseless emotions. Lust, rejection, and anger. So much anger, directed at her and more than that; at himself, for _reacting_ to her.

Tom found the Belgravia Moore house and was admitted through the wards. The ancestral hall behind it was an ancient, gothic structure, points jutting into the night like the blackened husk of a burnt tree. It reminded him of the churches the orphanage dragged him to, in an attempt to ‘cleanse’ him and ‘exorcise’ the evil inside of him when he was eight. He’d felt vulnerable and a chilling unease to be judged by those men of God. In the end, they failed; obviously. The priest told them there was nothing spiritually wrong with Tom. He was just a strange, quiet, lonely boy—

No. Why was he remembering that? He did not want think about any of that right now.

Alya waited for him, perched at the base of a statue, glowing beneath the shards of silvery moonlight that descended through lofty high-arched windows. She leaned forward, legs crossed, slit riding up, and wand tapping impatiently on the stone. Half her face was in shadow, raven hair undone.

Fuck. He was seized with the impulse to go to her, push her knees apart and taste her in between her legs. To discover if she would taste as sweet as her perfume smelled. He had no doubt she would. Then all of the things Alya had—her empathy, her honesty, her smile—that held power over him, would be surrendered to him in sexual pleasure and his madness would finally end.

But she had called him a ‘half-blood’ with such disdain and rejection, and he bore those cuts deep in his marrow. It was his dismal fate, that the person who’d made those cuts, was also the person he'd wanted to kiss several times within the course of an evening. But she had reminded him of that part of his lineage he detested. How she was better than him, just with her last name. Slytherin's, as they both knew, did not forgive slights easily. She wanted a duel, so he would give her one, and she would finally see his power.

Alya dropped down, her heels transfigured to practical footwear. The curve of her shoulders beckoned him into the challenge but he would not strike until they were in place. She sent a slight scowl to the stained glass art that towered above them, the moonlight taking on the colors of the panels, drenching them in emeralds, ruby reds, and honeyed yellows, their figures making long shadows. 

“Saints and angels from the dawn of time looked like that, not a single one looked like me. Nonetheless, it’s beautiful isn’t it?”

The golden light lit her brown skin from within, she looked rather angelic herself-not that he was going to share this. "It's indulgent." 

"Depends on who you ask." 

She aimed at the floor and a battle ring was drawn in salt around them. This was new and it was exhilarating for him, for his heart gathered frenzied energy, pounding in a way it never had before. It didn't give much room to move, but it wasn't constraining. Slytherin's as they were- they couldn't bend the rules of engagement and take the fight beyond the line. From the stance she took; solid, graceful, poised— it was clear she’d been in plenty of duels before. It has been a long while since anyone challenged him. Could she be a worthy opponent?

“You have a penchant for making enemies don't you?” 

“Please. I don’t think we know one another intimately enough to be enemies, _Tom.”_

Fresh anger clawed through his throat, currents of magic emanated through him, the adrenaline was slick in his blood. He was going to enjoy winning. They circled one another like two cyclones.

“Your level of confidence is astounding, Alya." He trilled his wand between his fingers, his lips in a broad grin. "But I'll give you one more chance to apologise. If you're nice to me, I'll go easy on you."

"Go ahead, because I won't." Her gaze hardened to steel at him. "You should bow to me. Good sportsmanship, you know." 

His smile died. "You'll learn soon enough, that I don't bow to anyone."

His eyes flashed red and he launched his attack. 

* * *

**Wow, that was a rollercoaster. Thank you as always. Please leave kudos and comments to let me know what you think! So sorry that I am torturing our main characters, I hate it too.**

**Also I was scrolling through Pinterest and found illustrations of Tom and Alya that almost perfectly capture them for me. The actor in Chamber of Secrets was cute, but he's not what I imagined Tom to look like when he got older. Uphillart has great illustrations for the HP characters based on book descriptions! Check her out on tumblr or insta.**

**TOM:**

**https://www.deviantart.com/upthehillart/art/Tom-Riddle-Jr-614998407**

**ALYA:**

**https://www.deviantart.com/pheberoni/art/girlie-584513160**


	13. When Snakes Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted chapter 12 'Revelations' before this so make sure you read that first. This one is a short chapter in comparison to the others, but I hope you guys like it.

**_TOM_ **

Their magic clashed in bursts of bluish lights. She re-directed his hex and met him stroke for stroke; blocked with a shield, then goes on the offense. They were careful to maintain themselves within the confines of the salt line. Tom blocked her _impendimenta jinx_ with a simple swipe of his wand, and she dodged his responding _Stupefy_. Basic defense against the dark arts tactics they have both honed. It could only escalated after this. It goes on like this for a while, both of them casting non-verbally in utter silence, except for the cackling sparks of magic. A fight like this is pure elegance. It is _fast_ and they have only milliseconds of reprieve before the other is launching another spell. He loved it. The howling from his chest is quieter, distracted by the duel.

Alya sent a series of red hexes, but Tom weaved through them without breaking a sweat. Frustration creased her forehead and he sent an arrogant smirk her way. She was still for a moment, thinking, he doesn’t give her the chance, as the force of his next hex, more powerful than the others knocked her back. Purple light shatters her shield like eggshells and she stumbled several steps towards the salt line. A flash of worry in her eyes. He advanced, pitilessly, and casted it again, shattering her next shield too. He grinned with a dizzy surge of pride and power. He was winning. So easily, it was disappointing. She was skilful but _nothing_ compared to his strength and prowess. She dared to proclaim she was more powerful than him?

Tom took several more steps, and went to strike once more—but before he can—Alya swished her wand over her head. He was amused for a split second—then ducked narrowly missing a ten-foot statue that almost bludgeoned in the skull. Startled, Tom was the one who had to rear away, slashing and throwing off animated statues of long dead Moore’s on winged horses, cloaked witches, and bearded wizards, charging for him at command of their enchantress. Stone arms tried to grab him, three-foot swords attempt to skewer him, but he turned them to fire and dust, his shoulder joint burning as his wand cleaved rapidly with _Bombarda’s_ and orange _Incendios’_.

Through it all, Tom has been forced to his side of the line. With unpleasant realization he knew it was his cockiness, and her feigned weakness, she used as tools to lure him closer. The last of the statues smashed into blocks. Sweat dampened the nape of his neck. Through the smoke, she glared at him as he infuriatingly remained in one piece. _You'll need to do more than that, to kill me._ Alya did not let, instead, she escalated the ferocity of her attack. A dark curse rippled towards him in red halos.

Curses were more sinister than jinxes or hexes. Tom wanted to snarl at the impudence and the challenge of his immortality. But he never showed anger when he dueled. He’s found that an impenetrable mask demoralized his opponent far more efficiently. The curse bounced on his shield with such force it made him stumble. He cannot be vexed at the idea that she may have seen a moment of faltering, because Alya charged to him fast and vengeful with a whip of blue fire. No more playing. She was fast. But he was faster.

Tom apparated behind her to her side of the circle, her blue fire burning on the empty ground where he once stood. He did it at risk of falling out of the line, but Alya does not turn quickly enough to meet him. The hex he sent tore a hole at the back of her dress, an angry red mark on bare skin. Alya snarled in pain, it filled him with a touch of satisfaction, and it pissed her off even more. _Good,_ a devious grin split his face. She apparated out of range. Tom was already re-angling himself as she reappeared. Her raven locks flew about her as she spun to dodge a _petrificus._ The light from it danced across her face, grey eyes luminous.

As he caught himself admiring it, he seethed and battle rage took him. His wand was an extension of his body, moving so swiftly with the flurry of spells he conjured, it had a mind of it’s own. Each slash of his wand; precise, cold and lethal, whilst hers in bursts of blunt force and rage. Yet, they move unthinkingly, as if their wands inherently knew how to outmaneuver the other. He never felt more alive, more full and free. _Like myself_ _._ After years of crafted facades, he could finally _be,_ and duel untethered. He should not be thinking like this in a midst of a fight, but he does. It was beautiful and terrible. Thrilling.

But not as thrilling as when Tom eyes clashed with hers, the light from their wands careening through the ashes of her irises.

Alya melted snow to form icicles that dash to him in glittering frost. Tom transfigured them into daggers and sent them back. Her eyes widened in shock, but she swiftly scrunched each one into silver balls that clunk onto the ground. In a moment of cunning, he flicked his free hand, and she lost her footing. Ropes, red like a fiery poker, wrapped around her wand wrist. He grasped the other end, and yanked her to him. He could taste victory on his tongue, their eyes lock once more. He wanted to see them wither in defeat—

_“Legilimens.”_

Only seconds passed. Tom felt the tendrils of her mind weaving through his. He threw her out effectively with his _Occulumens_ skill. Her audacity to try it on him in the heat of battle made panic clench his gut. If she had seen anything, any proof of his existence as the Dark Lord, he would have to kill her. The thought rattled him more than it should. Killing her would end his problems. But the idea was suddenly abhorrent. Tom lost his hold over the binding spell and his emotions.

He finally snapped, losing his cool, snarling at her. “You really thought you could read my mind? That you—“

Alya ignored him, made a tugging gesture with her wandless hand, wrist tendons bunching, white light exploded from her, blinding him. Her magic knocked him back several paces like a hammer to his chest. As his vision adjusted, he saw that the towering stained glass window had shattered into a million pieces. The shards suspended for a breath in mid-air, hovering fifty feet above him, singing like wind chimes and reflecting rainbow light.

Tom has never been matched with skill like this before. He finally understood that it is not pain reaching into his torn soul, but her, as if it is her fist in his chest, rattling it.

He doesn’t have a moment to fully grasp what this meant as Alya twisted her fingers and the shards wound together and flew to him like a giant spear. The shards plaster around the shield he hurriedly formed like a butterfly chrysalis. He channeled his power through it, his cheeks burning as the shield became as hot as a forge. She watched in awe, jaw-hanging open as Tom transmuted the glass; solid to the liquid to solid. It was red-hot molten then coagulated into a magnificent wave sculpture of blown glass, Tom at the center of it like a sea God.

Alya snapped out of her awe, her bottom lip curled, fists clenched at her sides, neither of them were making any progress to deter the other. She shot her wand above her with every last once of magic she had. A thunderous boom cracked at ceiling. His eyes lift skyward, the hall becoming monochrome, lightning illuminated a brilliant white pathway and zig-zagged down to her wand. Electricity tangled in her raven hair, until it was lifted from her shoulders. His pupils burned hot. Tom watched slack-jawed as she harnessed it, the corners of her eyes streaking with white sparks until the grey was gone. It was pure power, pure energy, he could taste it as if he chewed on a silver sickle. A bolt came for him. He leaped aside, but the electric charge seared one side of his dress robes. Alya was readying another bolt to volley at him. It was too great for him to latch onto or deflect, nor could he transmute it like he did the glass. Tom ground his teeth, concentrating until his head might burst. He swirled his wand and created blackhole, a pulsing shadow sucking her lightning into the dimension where vanished objects became non-being. 

The whirlwind sucked all the debris and glass remnants into the abyss. It would have absorbed her too, but Alya dropped to her knees, a quick sticking spell to root her in place. A flick of his wrist the blackhole was gone, leaving the two of them, panting and enraged. Tom stalked to her on a warpath, spent but determined to look into her eyes when he ended this. _Almost there._

But Alya refocused and used the position to lunge for him. He lunged too, hissing and snarling, giving everything they had despite the fatigue wearing down their limbs like lead. He captured the blasts of energy she sent, absorbed it and then flung aside, making craters on the walls and floors. They were close enough that their shields crashed. She reared, he pressed forward, and every move shifted them closer. _Just a little longer, just a bit more, I almost have her._ She was getting tired; her wand was not lifted as high, her chest rose harder, but she was far too close, and he was supposed to be winning this!

In an infinitesimal moment they were within arms length. Her leg swept to try and kick his feet from under him. Such a dirty trick, but Tom had fought like a Muggle before and knew better. He tangled her calves with his foot, certain he had her. Yet before she could stumble, she caught onto his robe and violently wrenched him forward. Alya crammed her wand into his rib in that secret place where his pain never ceased and Tom’s wand was at her throat.

They froze like two statues in a forbidden dance. His entire body ached, heart throbbing. Her chest heaved in and out, every breathe blowing a strand of hair from her eyes, and into his face. There was something damnably arousing about hearing her pant, how there were other reasons he could make her gloriously undone. Their eyes; a storm and darkness met in the middle again for seconds that stretched and stretched. Alya Moore was powerful. The truth of it rose to him like a sun cresting the horizon. Nevermind that she may be magically drained, the power she held remained. So much of it, and she didn’t know it. Something within him, unlocked.

When she swallowed, the tip of his wand undulated with it. A different sort of tension intertwined with the magical one, but really, it had never left. It was intoxicating, and he was drunk on it; her power, and the sight of her. She smelt of smoke, and musk and _her._ There was that wretched birthmark at her collarbone, her dark locks windblown; her dress clung to her heaving chest, singed at the hem. She looked like she went to hell and back.

_This is madness. She is still so beautiful._

His mind was splitting, the howling within shrieking to cacophonous levels. Every fiber of his being was at war with itself when her eyes dropped to his mouth.

* * *

**_ALYA_ **

Alya was aware of every subtle thing, the foot that separated them, the strands of black curls that stuck out at odd ends, the shallow breath that passed through his lips, the crease between his perfectly arched brows. She swallowed again, his wand tip grazing over her carotid pulse that thrashed wildly. Only the sound of their breathing filled the air.

Merlin, she wanted it to be over, she hated the concept of a stalemate, she's never had one before. He pushed her to magical limits she did not even know existed, it invigorated her, gave her a new life, new purpose she didn't even know she needed. Near him like this. The very rhythm of the world became something else. A wild, terrifying, incomprehensible thing. A curl of darkness whispering along her neck. 

But exhaustion clung to her bones, she doubted she could manage more than a knockback jinx at that moment. She was a tangle of chaos and pain, clinging to the edge of a precipice, the border of sanity. She wanted to fight. She wanted to brush away the wayward locks that had fallen across his brow. To touch that smooth, solid plane of the skin of his neck, his pulse heaving beneath her fingers. If they went on any longer, she would lose in more ways than one. 

“Go on. Do it. You know want to," she dared. Her wand dug a little harder into his ribs, to remind him that he was also at her mercy. His mouth twisted in pain she could not see.

Then... his wand grip loosened ever so slightly, like a flower unfurling at sunrise. Alya could scarcely believe it. He was hesitating, waiting for her. The silence churned between them, his breath becoming ragged, pupils dilating. Her throat went dry. Her wits, her anger, far away. Why they were duelling, seemed vastly unimportant when he looked at her like that. 

_Finish him,_ a voice hissed, but she ignored it. The truth was, she never wanted someone like this before. Not merely a flirtation and drunken one-night stand to chase away nightmares. This was different. She felt awake, ripped from muddy thoughts, uncertainties, and fears. She did not want to hide anymore. That hum of darkness stirred around them, feathering over her skin. She hated it.

She hated it so much, she craved it.

Her insides were aflame, liquid heat licking her veins from her heart to her chest, to her fingertips. She felt his strangled emotions in the heat of his gaze, in every exhale against her skin.

“Alya.”

His voice was a caress, tasting her name. Teasing it. She wanted him to say it again. His presence was a weight, urging her closer. 

His square jaw was always grinding with bridled emotions. Alya leaned up and kissed it softly, smoothing away those lines. She found his lips, brushed them with hers, once, just barely. She never imagined they could be so soft. Tom melted like snow into her, and the rest of the world fell away.

His wand clattered to the floor, his hands dropped to her waist, warmth radiating from them, seeping into her skin. He kissed her back, tender and slow, as if to savor her. She swept her quivering fingers over his heart that pounded at the same frenzied rhythm as hers, and down the hard ridges of his stomach. The extreme gentleness drove her mad. There was remarkable power in him; she felt down to her core when they fought. But it was leashed with control. It needed challenge, provocation. She wanted it. She wanted more.

Something wild gripped her. She grabbed fistfuls of his fair—loving how soft it was— and pulled him to her. Tom murmured a curse as their bodies met and his lips crashed into hers, hot and insistent. His tongue ran along her bottom lip, pulling it into a teasing nibble, swallowing the air from her lungs. She let him in. Her head tilted with vertigo as his tongue stroked hers, filling her with the taste of him, so glorious, and Alya whimpered into his mouth. Tom slipped one hand to the base of her skull and threaded it in her hair. “What are you doing to me,” he said more than asked, in a rasp. He tilted her head back with a demanding tug, deepening the kiss, their teeth flashing and nipping. His fingers dug into her hips, pulling them to his, grinding them against her. He was hard, and she felt the vibrations of a growl deep in his throat.

Tom lifted her to a sit on base of a destroyed statue, his mouth never relinquishing hers. She needed him closer. Alya wrapped her arms around his neck, legs around his waist, and dragged him to her warm center, loving the press of his body against hers. His fingers traced her collarbone, trailed between her breasts. She arched against him. They fought in non-verbal magic, instinct versus instincts, thoughts meeting thoughts, this was the same, but so much stronger.

He slipped a warm palm in, caressing the curve of her breast, a nipple beading under his touch. He pinched and rolled it between his fingers. The pleasure of it was sharp and sweet. Alya threw her head back sighing and shivering. He leaned down kissing and sucking wet bruises into her throat. She moaned, an ache pulsed at the apex of her thighs. He caressed her thigh and pushed her dress up from the slit. She bit down on her lip as two fingers pressed against her panties that were flooded with moisture. Tom groaned, panting against her throat, voice thick. “Oh God, Alya.” He cupped her harder, she gasped “ _Tom.”_ She’d wanted to surrender to his name like that for while now. 

She reached between them, her fist clenching around his hardness straining his trousers. Tom drew a sharp breath as if in pain. _Yes._ She fumbled for the zip, salivating in anticipation. He grabbed her wrist and firmly planted her hand by her side. “Not yet,” he said hoarsely, and she felt the veined strength of his forearm as he restrained himself. Alya made a frustrated noise. He chuckled under his breath at her impatience. Tom lifted his face to hers; and she wanted to commit the image of it to memory. His lips were bruised a brilliant shade of red, his pale skin flushed with colour, his curls a riot where she’d pulled it. His dark eyes transfixed her, churning with dark passion.

Through Alya's lust-addled brain, she almost missed the trickle of dark liquid on his temple and jaw. She flattened her palms on his arms to half-heartedly stop him. “Tom—Tom, your head,” she murmured, breathless lungs reaching for air.

He blinked at her a few times, confused in a haze of desire. “What do you mean?”

His hand went to his temple, coming away slick with blood. It changed him, so suddenly she couldn't not follow immediately. Coldness snuffed out the warmth they created. Tom froze and reared from her sharply. He touched his head again it was still bloody, as if he'd wished it would be anything but. He swiped his wand from the floor. “Tom?” She asked, worriedly. Alya fixed her dress and reluctantly planted her feet on the floor.

He raised his palm up, a bloodied stop sign. “Don’t.”

“Are you all right?” She went closer, taking her wand. It couldn’t be fatal. It was just a bit of blood. He was overreacting and she would _really_ like to get back to what they were doing just now. “Let me see.”

“No. Not a step closer," he ordered. He looked as if he had remembered something he should not have forgotten. The flames within her dimmed, ice filling her veins. She stopped and her hands fell to her sides, a hollow feeling widening within her. Granite lines formed on his jaw and forehead where a moment ago it had been soft and free.

“This means nothing,” he said suddenly, his voice a torn rasp; the only proof she had that he had felt even a sliver of something real between them. His wand cleaved the air and he was gone.

* * *

**A/N: please leave comments and kudos to let me know what you think! It was so hard figuring out where I wanted their first kiss to be. I've never written anything this romantic or sexy before, hope it was exciting to read :)**


	14. Theta Serpentis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we move forward, I researched the Ao3 ratings and upped mine from Teen to Explicit. It just fit better for the story. I'm sorry if I've misled you or if any future scenes make you uncomfortable, please refrain from reading the story if it does.

_**ALYA** _

As she waited for her bath to fill, she used a levitating mirror to inspect her back. Tom’s stinging-hex left a ten inch red slash in between her shoulder blades, angry-red and dotted with fluid filled blisters. It looked worse than the day she got it.

She was furious at herself, at her predicament that she’d fallen into. Tom Riddle would not relent. Part of her dreaded it, but part of her welcomed it.

Has she ever seen such a brilliant display of magical power as she did that night? She stilled every time she thought about it. It had been a silent duel, as if they had hooked into the other’s mind, deep and infesting, exchanging a thousand thoughts and words that manifested in a seamless dance of magic. Of course her meager _Legilimens_ trick failed, against talent like that. She had been stirred with jealously, admiration, and awe, roused by his power.

It took _work_ for Alya to become half as good as him. 

He looked strikingly beautiful too, like a Greek statue of a long-lost hero sprung to life, graceful and fleet-footed, his wide blinding grin that both mocked and dazzled her. His elemental magic, shifting the state of matter so effortlessly— _that_ was true magic. It was arcane and powerful, an innate skill that only comes once a generation if, ever. And Tom Riddle was the sorcerer to master it all.

She’d acted on impulse after impulse that night. But she did not regret her impulse to kiss him. She sighed, remembering the image of him in their heated embrace. His flushed skin, the softness of his lips, the press of his hard body against hers. She loved seeing him undone.

_Loved? Well 'like' doesn't have the same ring to it, does it?_

Alya had done that to him, to brilliant, powerful Tom Riddle. That gave her pure, sweet, satisfaction. More so because he was currently number one on her enemy list. It also begged the question: what was he doing as a shop boy or aspiring to be teacher with all that power he hoarded? He could be Minister for Magic or decorated with golden medals from the Order of Merlin.

Perhaps he was a simple, noble son of a bitch after all.

It had stung, for her heart to be soaring one moment, only for a shards of ice to enclose it the next. Swiftly after, came a new heat for vengeance, she may be processing this like a spurned lover, but it was _one_ kiss, nothing to be riled up about, and there was valid reason for her to be cautious and vengeful. Tom knew she was associated with Magnus Skarsson and she had to be logical and prepared for anything. _Calm and collected, that's what I need to be._ She was still drained from the duel. Every nerve ending frayed, as if all she touched was done so through a layer of furry gloves. She could scarcely manage a _Aguamenti_ without it looking like a poor piss stream.

She reclined on the bay seat in the spacious bathroom, leafing through her notes on the symbols her grandmother drew. It was composed of several layered rings. Every minute difference in circumference meant something. It had to be a location to lead her somewhere. Her current theory was that it was a portion of a star map. However, a star map needed dates. She wished she had more to go off on. It would be impossible to draw out star charts for every historical date since the dawn of house Moore, to dig for something significant. And what exactly denoted significant? The discovery of the signature Firewhiskey recipe in 1558? If it wasn't stars, it could be planetary maps, which would be even more a nightmare.

A tapping sound on the bathroom window drew her attention. A handsome barn owl waited for her. Ozzy, wiggled her rump and pounced for it, but the bird was perched too high. It gave a disdainful hoot at the cat. She was not expecting any sort of delivery. Alya opened the window and unbound a tiny parcel and parchment roll attached to its leg;

_Dear Alya,_

_For healing._

_Yours truly,_

_Tom Riddle_

Her jaw dropped to the floor. Alya turned the parchment over. Empty. That was it. Eight words. Forget calm, forget collected. The brevity! The absolute lack of sincerity! She ripped the brown parcel open. Nestled in a pot of moonflowers—which were bafflingly _alive_ during daylight, another artful trick of his— was a slim crystal bottle filled with a deep gold liquid. A healing potion of plumeria, with hints of honeycomb, and dittany. Tom Riddle had sent her a bloody healing potion as a gift. _The irony._ Does he think himself gallant? Or a comedian? All her quelled emotions bloomed within her, her cheeks hot with fury. The nerve he had. _Coward. Fucking coward._ Was this his poor attempt at reconciliation? An apology? Did he presume her forgiveness could be easily bought with gifts? He may be masterful at many things but this was not one of them. 

Still, Alya never let a gift go to waste; a potion this potent was easily six hundred galleons. She incinerated his letter wishing it was him. The moonflowers would die eventually, and she was loathe to toss such rare flowers prematurely, _as he knew I would not._ Alya emptied the healing potion into the bath. Bubbles floated from the surface of the water into the bathroom, Ozzy pranced around trying to catch them. The combined scents shot straight to her head like the first drugging shot of absinthe. It complemented the other aromatic oils-magnolia and bergamot- perfectly, _as he knew it would! Damn him_. She dropped her towel and stewed in the bath and her turbulent thoughts. 

. . .

A few hours later, the cousins sat across from one another in plush velvet chairs of the most exclusive social club in London, The Athenaeum. Members were mostly wealthy purebloods, but new money, scholars, and foreign dignitaries were admitted if they could pay the cutthroat fee.

“What do you know of our ancestors?” Alya asked.

“We’re descended from Merlin. Did you not pay attention to grandma during her history of magic sessions?”

_Power in our bloodline._ She fought a shudder at the possibility she was conceived for evil means because of it. It was such an arrogant thing to proclaim she was descended from one of the greatest wizards to have ever lived. But who else would her grandma have meant? _Merlin, literally Merlin._

“I zone out the moment she brings up the Leprechaun Bank Scandal of 1024.” Alya leaned back in her seat only for the sting of the hex to stop her. The blisters were gone, and the redness had reduced after the soak in the bath, but it was still uncomfortable. She was in black day dress with a heart-shaped neckline and thick straps, her loose hair carefully hid the mark. “Those are Old wives tales. I stopped believing in them when I learnt that Merlin was a man whore. Who knows how many of us supposed descendants of his are running around? No one ever wants to talk about it. There's clearly a hideous double standard in our society—exactly how your 'friends' call Rose Richards a ‘mudblood slut.’ Proclaiming marriage with Muggle-borns poisoned the bloodlines.”

_‘We orchestrated our own downfall,’_ it was taboo to even mention how the inbreeding had propagated countless magical diseases, even _insanity._

“I know,” her cousin sighed. “I understand. But why are you so interested, now?" 

“You said I needed to be interested in the family. There are texts about him in our library but I’ve read them before, they’re just fanciful accounts of his great deeds to King Arthur and the beginning of the Order of Merlin.” Alya doubted her cousin knew about the memories their grandma left for her. She would not act on anything yet. What if the old bat was delirious and this was a story fabricated by a fractured mind? If Alya were start claiming she was the heir with no proof she would be mocked as a fool. Besides, she didn’t _want_ to claim anything and accuse her aunt of adultery and her cousins illegitimate. It would appear like petty retribution. Guinevere and her may have not gotten along when they were younger, but they were still family.

"A few years ago I visited a genealogist. Someone has to keep tabs on the family lines. Everyone wants to be related to the great founders of Hogwarts or another." 

"What did you find?"

Guinevere looked a bit uneasy. "We're descended from a line of Merlin and Morgana."

"Weren't they mortal enemies?"

"He..forced himself on her."

Alya's face twisted in disgust. History vilified Morgana Le Fey as an evil dark witch. There were scarcely any sorceresses for young girls to look up to from that time period. Every single one of them proclaimed as wretched and evil by Muggles and wizard-kind.

"You can see why most people don't know about this," said Guinevere. "It's a stain on Merlin's glorious reputation, and it was on ours. Our forefathers went to great lengths to ensure that part of our history became nonexistent to the public eye. He's embedded in our culture and no one wants to believe he was anything but a great, benevolent wizard." Of course her family would have a hand in it, Alya would not expect anything less. "Anyway, it served as a turning point for me. I personally don't want any relation to the 'great' Merlin, it was so long ago. We’re Irish now, we’re Moore’s. That is greatness in and of itself." Guinevere gave her a quizzical look. “Is this about a prophecy?”

“Why would you say that?”

“Merlin was a seer, like Grandpa Lycus." Lycus stopped sharing his premonitions since he divined his father’s death by dragon pox. "He must have seen so much about us that he refused to share," continued Guinevere. "Perhaps he even saw how grandma would die. Rather sad isn't it? When you ponder on it too long. They did learn to love each other."

Disquiet curdled in her stomach like rancid milk. How much did he know that he refused to divulge? How much of the building blocks of their lives had he set in motion before he past away? “There hundreds of prophecies related to Merlin. I don’t believe in any of that nonsense.”

Alya paused. She may claim that it was rubbish but hadn’t she envisioned Magnus’ death beforehand? Or was it a manifestation of Alya’s dark desire to end him? Were they the same? Is this what her grandmother wanted? For her to trapeze the globe hunting for prophesies as the supposed ‘Moore heir’, the last descendent of Merlin himself? A Slytherin whom trained Salazar himself, aligned with Muggles and aided in King Arthur’s court? _Doubt it._ Alya made peace with the fact that she was a selfish person, far from capable of goodness and benevolence.

Speaking of dark desires. A gut feeling unfurled like a black rose within her.

Tom stood by the white pillars of the main hall, wearing a black waistcoat over a white shirt. Black outer robes flowed from his towering form, and his fingers brushed over his black and gold ring. His presence filled the air with an immeasurable tension. He was striking and unattainable, alluring in a way that was a bit frightening, with all that she knew about him. He stood beneath a gold and white statue of the goddess Athena, and she could see him being immortalized in the same fashion, centuries to come.

He leaned annoyingly close to Helena Greengrass, laughing at whatever she said. The sunlight kissing the ends of his curls, lightening them to a whiskey colour. Alya’s insides burned with jealously. Guinevere followed her gaze. “Hm, I thought you two got along very well at the engagement party.”

Riddle’s eyes found hers, as if they were magnetised. Their gazes held. It felt as if they were alone and the air had been sucked out of the room. She flushed, knowing what he saw, but getting caught being jealous swiftly morphed into cold dread, like chips of ice in her veins. She darted her attention before he got any ideas to come by. Within the next three minutes, she convinced Guinevere to leave with her.

. . .

“Did grandma ever want to look for me?” She asked, as they strolled through wizarding London. 

“She did.”

“But she didn’t.”

“In the beginning she did,” said Guinevere, trying her best to be sympathetic. “When it became apparent you had built a life with your mother, she stopped. Perhaps she wanted you to experience the world on your own, your own version of the Grand Tour. She hated that you with your mother though, that part of the narrative never changed.”

“Did Lacerta dislike grandmother?”

“A lot of people dislike their mother-in-laws. Grandma always complained that the women her sons loved were never good enough.”

“That’s true.” Lacerta needed further investigation as well. She dared not share any of this with Guinevere, Alya knew what side she would take. “I’m glad we’re not bickering, anymore, you're actually pleasant company, aren't you?"

“Until something else we disagree on comes along, dear coz,” she replied with a smile. Alya was delighted that Guinevere was using her preferred term of endearment for her. 

Her cousin checked her watch with a harried expression. "I need to run an errand." Before she could dash off, Alya hugged her, surprising both of them. "Oh that's new," she muttered.

Alya chuckled and let her go before they imploded with awkwardness. She watched her gold-spun hair disappear down the street. She wondered how long it would be before she saw her next, their paths were so different. 

. . .

Call her obsessed, call her a stalker, she would ashamedly agree to that description, because that was what she was doing. Obsessively stalking Tom Riddle, for the rest of the day. Years of sneaking around Hogwarts undetected made her skilled at it. He was getting angst-y, darting around, glancing into shadowy corners with a imperious scowl. She relished in his uneasiness, yet it also meant he was being more careful, and she might be wasting her time with this. Thus far, all he did was work. It was fascinating, watching him enter the homes of noble clients with a structured smile. When he left their homes, that smile went dead as a housefly.

In the last ten hours she learnt four things: he did his job well, he was good at fake smiles, he looked like a Witch-Weekly male model at any angle, and finally, Daytime-Riddle was rather...boring.

Nevertheless, she was determined to uncover something about him. Something she could use. Perhaps she would follow him to a secretive meeting with Argus Skarsson, perhaps he was an undercover auror, hunting wizard-murderers like her. 

At nightfall, she crouched on a rooftop across from Borgin & Burkes. He would be back from a Gringotts errand any moment now. She descended soundlessly onto the cobblestone. The weather was gradually warming to spring and she needn’t worry about leaving footprints in snow. As a precaution she wore a disillusionment charm. As soon as she spotted him coming down Knockturn alley, she keep her distance, watching his robes drag on the ground. It would never cease to be fascinating, observing him-

Suddenly he stopped and so did she. Riddle whirled around, a snarl on his lips and wand drawn. Panic seized her heart. Alya sulked into a trio of hags. His eyes skirted around rapidly. He stalked over to stacked cauldrons, not six feet from her, and blasted them to bits. The clangs bounced sharply off the building facades, clogging the air with black smoke. His chest heaved, shoulders rising and falling. As the smoke cleared, he slowly lowered the wand, collected himself and entered the shop.

She counted in her head to ten, before hurrying off to narrower alley. Her stomach grumbled, she had been at this for ages. Before she could contemplate a dinner spot -a shadow took form and lunged for her. 

Alya only had a chance to yelp, when Tom pinned her to the wall by the throat, a non-verbal _finite incantatum,_ disabled her dillusionment charm.

_“You?"_ He said with a barely-concealed growl, close enough that his breath disturbed her hair. He let her go, but didn't move away. _"You're_ following me?" He said, aghast. His tilted his nose, catching a whiff of something. He leaned back a bit, with a somewhat confounded expression. “You used it.”

Her stomach made a dipping motion, and a flush crept to her sensitive skin, she felt every fiber of her dress. The heat warmed the scent of his healing potion that clung to her hair. "I wish I didn't, it smelt awful," she fibbed rather lamely, and tried to knee him in the groin. He swiftly backed from her. Her hand instinctively went to check her neck, but she was fine. 

"I should not have grabbed you like that, I'm sorry," he said, "but I'm sure you can understand that no one likes being followed." His eyes narrowed. 

It was truly embarrassing to be caught red-handed, she definitely looked like a spurned lover now. She blurted the first thing that came to mind that would humiliate him instead. “You’re the who fled because they couldn’t handle a bit of blood." She wanted to slap herself, she was not making any sense. 

At least he had the decency to look mildly embarrassed. "That was uncouth and ungentlemanly of me. I apologise. The injury was..unexpected." 

She wanted to bemoan that her gut reaction to that was _'let me see, let me heal it'._ “I don’t want an apology from you.”

“You want to finish the duel?” He crowed, with a smug smile. “Or are you thinking of kissing me again?”

“You think you’re so irresistible do you?” 

“You tell me.” His baritone was low, a hum stirred from deep within her, his eyes intent on her. "You’re the one who’s following me. If you wanted to get me alone, you could have simply asked.”

Her traitorous body reacted with her pulse quickening. Without a tie, his shirt collar was open, the base of his throat visible; creamy white and enticing. She wanted to sink her teeth into it, leave a mark, ruin it’s flawlessness. Did he think about their kiss as often as she did? Or was it 'nothing' to him? It's not like she'd never been rejected before, but Tom's was colder and sharper than the others combined. She scowled at him. “No I’d pull one of your moves; manipulation with kindness.”

He tensed and took a moment, inhaling. “Nothing I said that night was a lie. I want you to know that." 

There was not a single note of dark arrogance she was familiar with, nor was his answer anything concrete. He could be so earnest if he tried, yet he was so terrified of empathy. Perhaps none of what he shared about his past with the orphanage and Dumbledore was a lie, but what about the rest of it? 

She crossed her arms like a shield, ignoring his closeness and honesty, pretending like it didn't mean anything to her. Since he wasn't trying to pull his wand on her, perhaps he could cooperate. “Who is Magnus Skarsson to you?”

“An acquaintance.”

“He's a dark wizard. Sort of company you like to keep, Tom?”

"Have you noticed my place of occupation? And don’t play innocent Ms Moore, it is unbecoming of you. You’ve consorted with that ilk before.”

“That is none of your business.”

He tilted his head, a brow arched, whisper of a smirk on his lips. “If I recall correctly. You claimed you did not know him.”

If he was trying to catch her out and get her tongue twisted, it was not working. “I did my research. I wanted to know more about why I was being accused, and why him. And why you are so interested in him.”

He shook his a head a little, with a breath that sounded like a laugh. She didn't know if she wanted to shove him or pull him closer, card her fingers through his soft hair, feel the hard curves of his hips between her thighs. Near his forehead she saw the scar that destroyed their kiss, she longed to trace it. Tom resolved her dilemma by drawing nearer with each breath. She did not stop him, not even when her back scraped the brick. Her resolve was tenuous, for if he said her name again like he did that night, she would melt instantly. 

“Magnus Skarsson means nothing to me. I am not interested in him. I never have been. I am interested in you." He flattened his hand on the wall by her shoulder, leaning down, until their faces were close. His was bared to her again, and she knew he was not lying. 

“I can't stop thinking about the duel, about you, despite my best efforts not to. You are power, indeed, Alya." His eyes darted from hers to her mouth and back, his intentions clear, pupils blown so wide that the black almost eclipsed the dark brown. The heat between them grew, their desire for each-other's bodies scorching the air. 

“Riddle!"

His attention tore from her to his boss at the end of the alley. Tom looked liked he'd woken up from a _Stupefy_ and he put an appropriate distance between them. “Mr. Borgin, I-"

“What the hell do you think you're doing? We have customers! Do not skulk in the alley with one of your girls during working hours, if you expect to be paid this week!"

_One of his girls?_ Mortified, she moved from the wall as if she was the one in trouble. 

A muscle tightened in Tom's jaw. He nodded. “My humble apologies, sir.” He clearly wanted to hex the old man. It was astounding watching him rein it in like floodgates of a dam. _So much power he keeps tethered_. Alya memorized every minute expression, as he looked back at her, torn and vexed, as he forced his desire back into its cage. Before he could open his mouth, Borgin barked at him to shut it and hurry.

She never got to hear the rest of what he wanted to say, if there was anything to say at all. She turned, the area between her shoulders prickled as he watched her leave. But Alya did not disapparate yet. Once, she was out of view and certain Tom was further down the alley, she cast a tracking charm. A tiny golden hummingbird darted from her wand and nestled on his shoulder before dissolving. If it worked and he did not sense it, she'd not get anymore unwanted surprises from Riddle. 

* * *

**_TOM_ **

The sky was lightening outside as he paced the hardwood floors of his living room in his pajamas; an old linen shirt and boxers. It's been days since he last slept, for his self-loathing had reached new heights. 

He’s had bouts of insomnia since creating the horcruxes. He would dream of his past, of his death, of his future stripped from him, and wake up in the night in a cold sweat. He would twirl his Salazar’s ring to remind himself of his goals, or write in his diary, a free flow of his thoughts disappearing in black ink onto a part of his soul. If these did not help, he tried to himself out with the pacing, reading, or practicing spells. He flogged his mind, so that all of his focus was used up, leaving none for his demons. 

The quiet mornings were a blessing. The world was silent, it was a new day, another step forward to focus on the many moving parts in his great plans. Then came nightfall and the restless cycle would repeat itself. Sometimes, he wished his brand of immortality was different, because he remained like any man. He suffered hunger and exhaustion, needs and longings. But he'd switched his brain long ago into thinking that endless cold was the norm in his life. He was comfortable with it, and slowly those needs and longings were compressed to atoms within him. But he was wrong. They were embers in the ashes; and they _hungered_ for air, they demanded life. 

Maybe there was something out there that could extinguish it for good.... but there's a real, solid, reason he did not want to do that. 

It was also the reason he could not sleep, and hated himself in a process. A witch with raven hair and grey eyes. 

The wound from the duel had shaken Tom, seeing his blood, red-black on his fingertips. After enduring the pain of his soul being cored out of him, he never truly felt the fragility of his humanity until that moment, or rather, the fragility of his immortality. It shook him because he had allowed such an injury to occur, allowed her to get close, and destroy him in the process. Consuming him, with her kiss, with the fire of living, and thoughts of his future had become nonexistent. There was only that moment and her. 

A faint cut ran from the left side of his forehead to his temple. No doubt from a shard of glass that pierced his shield. _A shield that should have been stronger,_ he cursed himself. It was a shallow wound, but the scar was not wearing off as fast as he wanted it to, even with the expensive healing balms he ordered Lestrange to supply, under the threat of death if he told anyone. Nothing would be more damning to his cause if his followers perceived him as weak and prone to injury. It was wandless magic Alya wielded to make it; pure and more ancient than both of them. It marked him, as he had marked her with his hex. 

The memories of the duel occupied his every waking moment. He'd fled like a coward, head bleeding, his cock painfully hard. He kicked a chair across the room, breathing hard through his nose. On reflection, there were multiple instances he could have finished it faster, but he didn’t. He should have killed her the second she had her back to him. Was it a ridiculous fairytale-like honour that stopped him? Something an old wart of a professor had said? ‘ _It is a great dishonor to strike your opponent with their back turned to you.’_ Bullshit along those lines. Was it because she was a woman? That would be even more pathetic on Tom's part. 

He paced and paced, trying to forget, but how could he? When he was enlivened by the astonishing feats of magic he accomplished that night? When the cut on his face stung as a reminder of her, and how obscenely alive he felt when their magic collided like dying stars. She was powerful, remarkable, something _more._

He was also frustrated at her impudence to cast a tracking charm on him when he caught her following him. As he lied in bed-lamenting his poor attempt at reconciliation with the healing potions and moonflowers-he felt the charm like a caress on his neck, _her_ caress. He'd leaped out of bed to remove it immediately. He was losing his touch, if it took him five bloody hours to sense it. It was pure luck he didn't have meetings with the Knights that evening. As the panic wore down, he was _impressed_ that she nearly had one over him. No one had ever managed to get this close to him and his secrets, not even the great Albus Dumbledore. Tom should be planning a way to strike against her, but that idea seemed monstrous now that he knew how sweet her kisses were...

Tom stopped. He closed his eyes and gripped the headrest of the couch. It was not difficult to picture her, she was etched into the back of his eyelids at this point. The soft raven tresses in his fingers, deep flush on her cheeks, those grey eyes that captured the moon’s essence. _A beautiful mess._ His teeth biting the fullness of her lips, how wet she was for him and only him. His torn soul had gone silent in her embrace with only his heart to speak for him...

When he opened his eyes, he was light-headed with desire, his knuckles had gone white. It was a guilty pleasure and a personal torture. Self-destruction at its finest. He had not wanted it to get this far with her. _You liar, yes you did._ She was something his body _knew,_ he needed, but his mind had not even considered yet. He clawed at the scab of the cut, hidden by a curl of hair, thin and rough beneath his fingernails. He nearly had an aneurysm resisting the urge to scratch it in front of his followers. He'd been taking it out on them to quell some of his restlessness. Whatever Travers endured seemed as juvenile as a leg-lock jinx in comparison. 

He went to the books and parchment strewn in his study like a mad alchemist. He wrote about her in length in his diary. From the moment they met in the Moore manor and every detail after that, etching the story of Alya Moore into a part of him. But it did not empty his mind. Thoughts of her were tangled with his consciousness like sunlight on water. He then tore open an Astronomy book, his stack of notes fluttering out. He found the page on the _Serpens_ constellation, with an illustration of a snake bearer. The stars the night he first met her.

‘- _Discovered by Ptolemy. Serpens is a triple star system known as Theta Serpentis by Muggle astronomers. Traditionally, it was known as ‘Alya.’’_

Not everyone had taken Divination seriously like they did Arithmancy. But Tom did. He'd presumed the _Serpens_ was supposed to be for him, the Heir of Slytherin, a sign of good fortune to come. But lately, he's had a trend of being wrong, he used both Calliope and Aganice theories. Alya was either the man trying to strangle him-the snake-or vice versa. Or the strangle could be a caress. They were either supposed to kill each other or save one another. Or it was something else entirely that he had missed. 

Or...the stars did not care one bit about them. They were merely distant bright spots that meant nothing at all, and she was just Alya Moore, a girl whom just happened to get beneath his skin. 

A headache pounded behind his eyelids. He hated this. The emotions were so overwhelming and he was unequipped to handle them. He felt as if he were juggling chainsaws whilst balanced on a tight rope. _I just need to be factual about this_. Fact: it's been eight years of tirelessly and meticulously planning his rise to power. Fact: she was a blood traitor, he would never be able to trust her. _Think of what she called you! 'Half-blood', with filthy Muggle last name!_ Fact: he never had to see her again, for she was a blip in his existence, a lapse of poor judgement, insignificant in the grand scheme of things-

All of these facts were inconsequential save for the fact that he irrevocably, undeniably wanted her. 

* * *

**You guys can correct me if I got any astronomy stuff incorrect, it was a bit confusing lol I have the next chapter finished, just needs another edit. Please leave comments and kudos!**


	15. Needs and Longings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a quick warning for sexual content! Be sure to read chap 14 before this, I posted that yesterday

**_ALYA_ **

The skies were overcast in Edinburgh, a brow of fog over green hilltops in the horizon. She strolled on the busy cobble stone streets of the Old Town, amidst the charming mix of urban and medieval architecture. Her eyes darted at the narrow wynds casted off the main road, disappearing staircases, and hidden churchyards worth exploring.

But adventure was not on her mind. Tom Riddle was. She saw him in the ink spilled on parchment, the milky white moonflowers on her dresser that refused to die, an abandoned cathedral overgrown with black thorns, in the icy gales of the Northern Sea. No one form could ever contain him. Besides Willem she never had a man preoccupy her headspace like this. He was everything she wanted once, dreaming of marrying him in the cherry blossom fields of the manor. Other than that, it was anonymous sex, hurried and brief, with complete strangers, or an acquaintance or two. Even the threesome she had a few weeks ago, did not do it for her like Tom did. 

Nothing could ever compare to what she felt for him. Now that she was not worried about his possible connection to the Skarsson's she was left to deal with the knowledge that she _wanted_ him. In an intense, possessive manner that scared her. _'One of your girls'_ Borgin had said. The idea that he could prefer a pureblood princess over her made her want to split the ground in half. That was obviously what he truly wanted. _Not me, I am the intriguing conquest._ That was how Mulciber saw her, how could Tom be any different? She knew of the nasty rumours they spread about her in school. How she shagged the quidditch players and blew every Muggle-born boy she laid eyes on. Did Riddle laugh then they whispered these things about her? Smirk in agreement? 

Defying logic, she yearned to hold him, dance with him, kiss him, listen to the musings of his clever mind; say hundreds of silly or outrageous remarks until she gleaned an unmasked smile from, that she knew he gifted to no one else, but her. Every time she tried to decode him, she only pulled herself even deeper into his orbit. She wanted to get lost in it. There was an understanding between them as if they'd known one another for many years. She could never forget how he looked at her as they danced, how he made her feel like she was the most special person he'd ever met. What of his leashed power and hunger, that both frightened and excited her? _'I am interested in you.' 'You are power, indeed, Alya.'_

Truth was, she wanted those too. 

She waited for Willem outside a bookstore. He was in Edinburgh for a Transfiguration Convention, whilst she was freelancing for Gringotts hunting through the black markets for rare scrolls on dragonriding for a Romanian breeder. Several of which, were already tucked under her arm in wooden scroll tubes. Willem stepped out, empty-handed. That was typical for an Aquilla. They had standing tabs in hundreds of shops across the globe. They walked in and left with whatever they needed, or had the items delivered via owl-express to their addresses without trading any coin. The bank would do the work for them. 

"Can I practice my opening speech with you?" They found a bench nearby. She half-listened as his cue cards floated up and he droned on about 'the Ethics of Non-Objects.'

Her mind wandered to Riddle. How could she ignore his prejudices, their differences? What would he do if he discovered she'd killed a man? She played the scenario out in her head over the past week. Once he discovered the truth, he'd be horrified and disgusted, and then run to the authorities. She could imagine his little gang; smug and _male,_ after he told them he lured a murderer with his ridiculous good looks and charm. They'd hail him as a God. He'd get a clap on the back from a Minister or two for being a good citizen. She would be sent to Azkaban, needn't worry about Argus Skarsson uncovering the truth first. What if he thought of her as a blood traitor? He'd been chivalrous giving her his handkerchief that day, but what did he _actually_ believe? 

_He probably thought I deserved to be cursed by Travers._

_But he gave you that special smile, and he told you about his mother..._

Merlin, she wanted to hit something. Preferably Tom Riddle himself.

“What are you dazing about?” Willem snapped his fingers. “Nothing," she said hastily, as if her thoughts were tattooed across her forehead. "I haven’t come here in a while, I forgot how beautiful the city was."

“Hm, is that it?" He drawled. "Because you look like you have a lot on your mind." 

She kept so many secrets from him: Magnus, grandma's will, the duel, the kiss. "I'm just pleased with myself. I'll be paid handsomely by the Head Goblin and Baron Nopcsa for these. I can hire a gardener to deal with the hedges and the gnomes."

"Good, and you'll be able to treat me to dinner instead." 

Alya thwacked him with a scroll. _He_ was the one who was so generous with the bill. She had a small monetary inheritance, besides that she was lucky curse-breaking paid well. However, it also meant living paycheck-to-paycheck, whilst saving what she could. It was why she bought Muggle clothing because of the strength of galleons compared to pounds. These were not concepts he would understand but she didn't want to argue with him before his big speech. 

She thought about her grandma's foretelling that she was the heir to the Moore empire: their lands, the distilleries, the shipping routes. It was a weighty responsibility for someone who barely had any experience with it. "Do you think, if I was the heir, I'd make a good leader?" She would not ask anyone else that question, for it sounded like treason, but she trusted Willem wholeheartedly. 

"You were always bossing me around, does that count?" He laughed as she huffed in annoyance. Perhaps it was a big joke that she even considered it, she didn't see herself as a leader either. "Whatever. Are you excited to meet Professor Dumbledore?” 

“Nauseous but excited,” he clutched his tummy. “His seal of approval on my presentation is the only one I need. Then I'll know I'm not being an utter prat thinking I could do his job."

Alya held his arm reassuringly. “Don't worry, you’ll be grand.”

“I missed hearing you say that,” he smiled wide. They stood, and she gave him a farewell peck on the cheek, it was amusing that he blushed a little. It wasn't an uncommon gesture to do when greeting or saying goodbye to close friends, but she realised it was not one they had ever done before. She patted his cheek before this became unnecessarily awkward. 

“If you can manage the speech without charmed cue cards, you can pick the dinner spot, it'll be my treat." 

* * *

**_TOM_ **

The past few days were tedious. His acquirement of Lady Treacle's tapestries seemed to drag longer and longer with each visit to her castle. His optimism that it would be over quickly, waned. He was also busy with the Knights to rig the election for a new member of the Wizengamot panel. Thanks to him, it was a sure thing that it would go to Orion Black; heir of one of the purest, richest and oldest Wizarding families in Britain. Relatively young, but as long as Black’s views aligned with his followers, his age did not matter. 

Suddenly, she was there.

Tom blinked several times. Was he thinking of her that much he was hallucinating her? But she was real. She stood in the middle of Edinburgh, not twenty feet away. Alya did not see him at first. She was at a bench outside a graveyard, winding cord around several wooden tubes. It was wholly endearing and amusing to see her fail at it when a simple rope-tying charm would have sorted it. His heart tightened at her loveliness; her hair was loose, lips a dark berry red, she wore a silk midnight blue dress with matching cloak, the colour complimenting her eyes. 

She was humming to herself as he approached. The song died when she saw him, eyes widening. 

_"What_ are you doing here? In Scotland?" Alya demanded as if he'd barged into the girls toilet. She must have realised her little tracking charm failed.

He went over there without giving any thought to what he was going to do. _Tell her she looks nice?_ _Ask her out?_ "I could ask the same of you. Following me, again?"

She rolled her eyes. "If I was following you why would I be out in the open like this? I would be the world's shittiest spy, wouldn't I?" It was a small mercy to his pride that she didn't add ' _you idiot,'_ he felt like one for starting a conversation like _that._

_"_ True, but you weren't very good at it last week either."

"Well I am not following you Tom," she said indignantly. "You can be rest assured I will not try again."

"That's a shame." 

An adorable blush bloomed on her cheeks. "As you can see I am here on business." She deposited the scrolls into the depths of her bag, spelled with an extension charm. 

"So am I." As she walked, he trailed next to her, delighted that she didn't shoo him off. 

"Which lovely widow are you entertaining today? Huxley?" 

"Lady Treacle." She snorted under her breath. "Is that amusing?" He scowled. 

"God, I do not feel sorry for you at all. She's rotated the same five stories for the last ten years, and I am definitely allergic to those heinous feather hats she adores."

Tom struggled to suppress a smile. "You're not wrong."

He told her about the tapestries, but that seemed superfluous compared to the dragon-riding scrolls she acquired. Tom had always believed what she did for a living was fascinating, but knowing her better now, made her all the more remarkable. There was so much of the world she had seen, that he longed to see too. _Tell me more. I want to know more._ But he kept this to himself, nodded along, listening raptly.

They strolled down the graveyard path, dappled light peeking from the leafy canopy above them. It felt...good to be with her like this, so normal. It was arguably better than when they danced at the dinner party. That peculiar blissful feeling draped over him like a warm blanket; of being Tom, and nothing and no one else. Instead of tossing it aside in revulsion, he latched onto it for a while. He wondered if Alya knew she had that effect on people; making them feel good at just being themselves. But she was selective about whom she was genuinely kind to. He was grateful to be one of them.

They stopped at a mausoleum flanked by two angels. She placed her hand against the grey stone. The name of the deceased weathered away by the centuries. The corner of her lip tipped up, soft playful eyes glancing back at him.

"Care for a drink?" 

"It's noon." 

She shrugged. "All right. Bye then."

He flattened his palm beside hers, shaking his head. It was useless to resist her. “You’re terrible.”

“True, but you don’t really think so.”

He grinned, following her into the tunnel. They emerged ten seconds later on the other side of Edinburgh, the castle perched atop the rocky crag. He followed her to a bar she knew. It was low-ceilinged tavern, with medieval coat of arms, wooden furnishings, and golden beer taps. He spotted several paintings Borgin would love to get his grubby hands on. It had an air of exclusivity to it, based on the high-end clothing of the clientele and assortment of expensive liquor on the back walls. 

The barman, was tall, pale as a sheet, bloodshot eyes, ice-blonde hair gelled back. There was an eerie, fey beauty to him. Once he put it together, the disgust was bitter on Tom's tongue. "He’s a dhamphir," he remarked. These half creature spawn of vampires were dangerous and she wanders into their social spots unperturbed? 

"Yes." Alya quirked a brow at him. "They've had centuries to collect the best liquor money can buy. Does that trouble you?

"No," he lied.

"Take a seat." They chose a quiet table in the corner. "What will you have?"

Tom should have offered to get the first round but she took the lead and charged to the bar once he told her his order. Alya smiled charmingly, chatting amiably with the filthy half-creature, whom cracked a smile back at her, fangs visible. Tom's blood boiled with jealously. She traded no coin at all, the drink orders floated beside her when she returned, and landed gently on the table. He was glad her attention was back on him. 

"Free drinks?"

"Only because I asked nicely.” The allure of her dark grey eyes, a contrast to the honey of her smile. She was several sips into her Firewhiskey glass before he'd even taken off his outer robe. 

"Why do I have a feeling you're going to drink me under the table?"

"Because I probably will." The cool challenge of her gaze made him wonder why the rest of the world wasn’t bowing at her feet. She rested her chin on the back of her hand. "Can I ask you something about the duel?"

"Please do," he said mildly, even though his heart was was going a little faster than usual. It was her way of telling him that it was plaguing her mind too, just as it plagued his. There was no one else he could share that experience of their magic melding into one another. Fire and firefighter, melody and counter melody, a divine balance. Whatever they had between them right now was set on tentative, shaky ground due to the mistrust. But Tom was willing to answer whatever she wanted to know as truthfully as he could. He would not do that for anyone else. That's how much he wanted her, wanted to be wanted by her.

"That blackhole. Where does it go?" 

Excitement prickled over his skin, she was asking about his favourite part of the duel. _Second favourite._ "I took your lightning into the non-being realm." 

"But non-being is around us."

He thought of fifth year transfiguration, when Professor Dumbledore taught them about vanishing objects. Tom reminded himself he was in far more appealing company than Albus Dumbledore. "The energy has to disperse somewhere. Haven't you ever wondered how dementors came about?" 

Her brows raised, she probably didn't know she had very expressive ones, which was why it was easy for him to read her. "Don't tell me our magic created a herd of dementors?" 

_Our magic._ A shiver of pleasure ran through him. _Yours, mine, ours_. It was intoxicating. That blissful warmth wrapped around him tighter, and he never wanted to be released from it. "It didn't, but they are made of condensed dark magic, from the non-being layers of reality we can't see pressed around us." 

"So you were inspired by their soul-sucking abilities, to make a blackhole spell," she leaned attentively, lashes blinking up at him.

"Yes," he smiled, taking a swig of his drink, holding her gaze steady. "I imagine that's how you make lightning? Taking energy from around us and focusing it? Reversing the charged particles in the air?"

She gave him a furtive look. He didn't want to admit to her that he had not mastered lightening and was only muttering theories he read about it. Once he mastered fire it didn't seem necessary to master lightening. His cockiness was overruled when he saw her wield it, and suddenly he was _desperate_ to learn it, perhaps from her. But he wasn't good at asking for what he wanted when it meant showing any form of weakness or lack of knowledge, this applied to all aspects of his life. 

"Maybe," she smirked, withholding on purpose to keep him on his toes. He explained to her more about the spell-craft he used, and it was refreshing to have someone to discuss it with.

"Do you have a problem with Dumbledore?" 

Her question took him off guard, but then that was the effect she on him. "What makes you say that?" 

"Just something I noticed. People hero-worship him. You don’t."

"I thought you did." 

She shrugged, finished her drink. This time, Tom insisted on getting the next round, ordering with as much politeness as he could muster from the dhamphir barman. He was eager to listen to her after the brief separation.

"Well, I can admire someone's greatness but not to that extent that I idolise them," she said, once he returned. "I think doing so, makes you forget that they're normal people and they make mistakes."

"I couldn't agree more."

"What was your impression of him when you met, if you don't mind me asking?" She asked, more delicately. 

_Merlin, she goes for the throat, doesn't she?_ He's never shared this much about himself to anyone. He was always good at being the interrogator, not the other way around. But she already knew more about him than anyone alive, a little more wouldn't make a difference. "Good at first. He set the closet on fire, with the flame-freezing charm. It was wonderful, to learn there was reason I could do the things I could.“ It truly had been wonderful. All through his childhood he knew he was special, that he had a purpose. Finally he had an answer to what he was, and a new place to call home. Tom could not remember a happier or more peaceful moment in his life. 

"And after that?" 

He grimaced, Dumbledore found a way to make that moment bittersweet. "He reprimanded me because I stole from other kids." He needn't add the part of how he handled his bullies or parseltongue, she wasn't ready for that. 

"What did you steal?" 

"Chocolates. Is that funny to you?" Tom asked when she smirked, more edgy than he intended. Dumbledore pretended to burn the little prizes he collected, using force and intimidation to keep him obedient and silent ever since their first interaction. He'd constantly kept a skeptical eye on him in school. It only fed Tom's rebellious spirit, made him better had hiding his great plans. He has not stopped looking over his shoulder for the ginger-haired professor ever since his Hogwarts days. Dumbledore was out to get him, he just knew it.

"Only because it's preposterous," her smile was soft and empathetic. He relaxed, feeling silly to have been the slightest bit offended. "When I was a child, I stole all the time, from my cousin, my grandma, even my governess once, when I was cross with her. I nicked a love letter from her fiance. Merlin do I regret it, I needed to wash my eyes with holy water after reading that."

Her laugh was so infectious it made him grin. Her smile, with the slightest difference in curvature, could either light up the darkest corners of his heart, or twist him up in knots of desire. She told him about her governesses. How she went through four within the span of six months. The deviant pranks in her youth involving toads, exploding piano benches and ear-wax flavoured tea to chase them off. "Arguably what I do now involves some level of criminal activity," she said, "unless you plaster a seal of legitimacy over it." 

He tapped his nail against his glass, the liquor had warmed him up nicely. "Would it be possible for me to see the scroll?" 

Alya didn't say a word, only straightened and plopped into the seat beside him, buzzing with excitement. Smile so broad, he was blinded by the whites of her teeth. "I'm not supposed to do this, the client would kill me." She took out a wooden tube and opened the lid, looking back at him the same way she had in the Moore library weeks ago, when she first captured his interest and has not relinquished it, since;

"You won't tell on me, will you?" 

"I can keep a secret. I promise." 

They shared a secret smile. Another shiver of pleasure raced through him, knowing that she wouldn't grant this courtesy to anyone else. He wasn't even looking at the scroll as she carefully laid it out on the table. "Isn't it stunning?"

Tom admired it. The illuminations were beautiful with rows of magical incantations written in latin. The individual scales of the dragon illustrations were picked out in gold and silver leaf, the intricate floral borders moved and twisted. "According to this there's magic out there, similar to _Legilimens,_ except it's used with animals," she shook her head. "I think the client hoped to be able to control a dragon, like a pet." 

"To delve into the mind of a beast, would risk co-invasion. Remnants of the beast could linger in your head.”

"You'd become a monster too," she said, with a thoughtful look. "I'm surprised his big head can fit through the door. You need a massive ego to think you'd be able to mind control a dragon." She shifted to peer at a corner of the scroll, and her hair grazed his arm, granting him a whiff of bergamot and magnolias. When she glanced up it was obvious he'd been staring. "Have you ever been on a winged horse?" She asked, their knees brushing under the table, and he was certain she'd done it on purpose. He shook his head. 

She chewed on her fullness of her lip. "Well, if you wanted I could take you some time-"

"Tom!" A high-pitched voice split through the bar. He whipped his head to it, and instantly slipped his pureblood mask on. Priscilla fucking Parkinson waved at him with the enthusiasm of second years after summer break. She disappeared for a moment, tugging an unseen person behind her. The broad-shouldered form of Ulric Mulciber squeezed through the door. That couple had been on and off for years. He wanted to flip the table, enraged by their interruption. 

"Ulric, it’s Tom." Within a few strides, the pair were at the table. Tom stood out of habit, and he knew it was a mistake because the one person he actually wanted to be with, the one person he could not stop thinking about, tensed up beside him. Mucliber looked a bit surprised to see him, even more when he saw _her._ He bowed his a head a little, a secret show of respect. These were odd circumstances but Ulric always knew his place. 

"What a lovely surprise," Priscilla gabbed, and then realised whom he was with. "Moore?" She blurted, looking scandalised. "I haven't seen you in a while." 

Alya smiled thinly. "Priscilla." The coldness blew off from her like an Arctic wind, and everything was falling apart. 

"Mulciber," said Tom. 

"Riddle, good to see you. Ms. Moore," Ulric nodded, quickly darting his gaze from her to Tom. "I didn't know you were in Scotland. Will you be here on business for long?" 

"I don’t expect to be," he responded coolly. _Fuck._ These were variables he did not account for. He was so engrossed with Alya that he didn't even think about how it'd come off for him to be spending time with her in public. But he didn't want to only be close to her in dark, hidden, corners. That would hide her greatness from the world, she deserved more than that. Tom did not expect such simple-minds to understand, and he refused to feel the need to explain himself to his servants. But that didn't mean he could ignore the questions popping inside their heads to see them together. 

Priscilla outright ignored Alya. "Tom, we’re having dinner later at Choubert's castle, you are more than welcome, too," she said, and his blood was boiling and he wanted to tape her stupid mouth shut. "We hardly ever see you outside of London. Avery will be there with Carmilla. Choubert's father finally opened the cauldron factory and they're celebrating. Her french cousins are visiting too, they're beautiful and such good fun to be around, you must join us."

"I’ll have to double check my schedule."

Before he could comprehend it, Alya was putting her cloak on and standing. "Well, I need to go, I have an appointment. It was wonderful seeing everyone. Stucco." She took her sweet time to wave at the dhampir whom bowed his head respectfully; _"Grazie mille, signora Alya."_

Tom's jealously was toxic, eroding him from the inside out. What did that fucking half-creature have that he didn't? She half-turned to him. "Tom." While her smile involved a lot of scaffolding to maintain, he knew to look at her eyes. There was a cold emptiness there, he had never seen before. It cut him deeper than when she'd called him 'half-blood,' deeper than any curse ever could. She didn't wait for an answer. Alya never looked back at him, and he was afraid she never would.

* * *

_**ALYA** _

Alya could not get out of there fast enough. She did not want to sit there, being ignored by Ulric and Priscilla. Mulciber wouldn't even look at her for more than a second, as if she were invisible! Parkinson was one of the biggest gossips back in school, equally as horrid as Oakheart, no doubt instigated the various slut-shaming rumours about her. Alya could practically see the question of _'what is Tom Riddle doing with_ her?' Tattooed across Priscilla's stupid forehead. There she was, dangling on Riddle's arm like a trophy, listening to him disrespect her and accept dinner invitations from the _Louisa_ _Choubert_ whose fiance attacked her with a blood curse in broad daylight. He could go have a wonderful fucking time with Louisa's _beautiful_ _French_ cousins and jump off a cliff for all she cared. She should never have let her guard down around Tom, allowed herself to believe anything between them could be genuine. But he'd been giving her all that attention, and she'd adored it, leeching it up greedily. Maybe he fancied her a bit, but Tom Riddle did not give a _fuck_ about her. He didn't care about her. While it was going to be horrible to accept, she had to, no matter how much she wanted him. 

"Alya!"

She almost froze at the call of her name. It was Tom. He was coming after her-

_Don't. Don't look back._ Her legs kept moving, her pulse thudded faster. "Alya, where are you going?" 

At her continued silence, Tom chose that moment to apparate in front of her. She nearly stumbled into him, before he could try to steady her, she drew back, turned sharply away. He stayed near, his longer strides easily keeping in pace with her short, fast ones. 

"Slow down, can we talk?"

"Why? It's not like we have anything more to say to one another." 

He let out an annoyed huff of air through his mouth. "Yes we do, but you rushed out of there." 

She shouldn't have, but she glanced at him. It was a gloomy day, yet the rare shafts of sunlight almost seemed drawn to him, caressing his cheekbones and brow in pale golds. She forced her gaze ahead, face still and expressionless. "Because I have work to do, I need to go the owlery and then I'm getting dinner with-" 

"With who?" He demanded, and she was a tad satisfied to hear the jealously there.

"Willem."

"You came to Scotland with Willem?" He shot out, then asked in a less confident tone. "Are you - are you with him?"

"What? No!" She retorted, stopping. "Unless you believed those rumours about me shagging Ravenclaws and quidditch players, you'd know he’s my oldest friend! As Mulciber and the rest of them are to _you."_

His face twisted. "I never believed those disgusting rumours about you. Don’t pay any mind to Mulciber and the rest." 

She scoffed. "Easy for you to say. They worship you." 

"Does Aquilla even _know_ you? Really know you?" 

"Of course he does," she shot indignantly. "He's the only person who's been there for me since I met him, which is more than I can say for most people!" Why was she telling him this? She did not need to explain her friendships. God knows someone needed to be looking Tom and his choice of best-mates. "And frankly, I think you've overestimated your importance in my life."

Before he could read into her lies, Alya darted into a narrow stairwell. He caught up, and stepped around her, blocking her descent. “I understand what it's like to be despised for your greatness, Alya. They don’t know what I know.”

"I don’t care if they despised me," she hissed, eyes slitted. "They did because they’re _weak.”_

He paused, the moment charged, eyes roving over her countenance, the dark pull between them pulsing and insistent. "I know that you are special, and with guidance from me-"

"'Guidance?'" She guffawed. The arrogance. She managed well on her own long before he sauntered into her life. "I need don’t lessons from _you,_ I was perfectly fine without you!" Alya forced herself past him, their heights at level because of the stairs. She could finally glare directly at his face;

"And if you recall we ended on a stalemate before you ran off like a coward. I could tear you apart with a single curse if I wanted to!"

One moment it looked as if they would draw their wands and duel. Instead, Tom gently ran his hand down her arm, and leaned close, there was a hardness to his jaw, a roughness to his voice;

"I could make you come with less than that." 

Her mouth went dry, as his eyes darkened with sultry determination. The air between them electrified, thick and heavy. Her brain turned to mush, incapable of forming any sort of comeback to top _that._ Anger from her face dissolved, heat rushed through her blood, wicked thrill curled inside her core. She should have walked off. Instead, she let him take her hand and lead her down the stairs so fast she would've tripped if she hadn't clutched his bicep on time. They sped through an small empty courtyard, lined with black Victorian-lamp posts, the backs of tall building facades on all sides, covered in ivy. She didn't know where they were going, but she didn't want to be anywhere else.

Tom shoved a run down blue door open, its hinges creaking loudly, then slammed it shut. It was an abandoned bookstore, gloomy with empty shelves, slips of sunlight seeped in from spaces between boarded windows. Alya barely registered any of it before his hot mouth crashed over hers. Kissing her with an abandon that was borderline crazed, leaving her breathless, as the weeks apart had built a well of need that was overflowing. She let herself be pulled into the passion and urgency of the moment, and fisted his hair to keep him in place, overwhelmed by the gentle bites and strokes of his tongue, melting at the sounds he made. All of her reservations faded to nothingness when there was just him and the heat of their bodies.

She needed to have him, just once, burn the want for him out of her.

He gripped her hips and yanked her flush to him, his hardness pressing beneath her naval, and he moaned into her mouth. Such a perfect sound. He propped her at the edge of a table, undoing her cloak, letting it pool behind her. His hands were everywhere and nowhere at once, moulding the curve of her spine, her waist, softly grazing her breasts. Alya mapped the hard contours of him, the lean muscle of his arms, his chest, that enticing length of ivory skin at his throat. She loved the contrast of his hard body with the silky softness of his hair. God, he was beautiful, and for that moment he was all hers. She ravished his neck, his pulse throbbing beneath her lips. She pressed her soft thighs around his waist, and his hand trailed up the naked skin of her thigh, he didn't pause like before. He tugged her panties aside, and a ran finger through her slick lower lips, and she let out a choked gasp.

"You're soaking wet for me," he whispered hungrily and knelt in front of her. Her face burned hot with embarrassment, but she was too aroused to stop him. He planted kisses at the insides of her knees, hand in hand they pushed her dress until it hiked around her hips. She raked her hands through his hair, as he kissed her quivering inner thighs, higher and higher. One swipe of his finger with an unspoken charm, tore her panties, leaving nothing between him and the most intimate part of her. 

His gaze lifted to her, and she shivered at the heat of the desire in them. The tip of his tongue darted out to wet his lips. “You have the most beautiful clit. It wants my mouth, it wants me to taste it.” He pulled her to the edge and hugged her thighs to pin them down. 

"Tom— _oh."_ She gasped as his tongue ran through her wet folds, sipping, lapping her essence. His hum of adoration vibrating through her body. He spread her wider, spearing into her slit and Alya bucked so hard she almost fell off the table. He licked upwards towards the sensitive nub, sucking it into his mouth. He kept that pressure, torturing her with slow circles of his tongue, perfect balance of firm but gentle. He was too good, the grip on her thighs tightened to steady her as she arched her back and rocked against his mouth greedily, her body twisting, voice crying out for him. _"Oh God, Tom, yes_ ," she moaned in pleasure, closer and closer to the edge of that crest. She needed him to take her there.

He abruptly stopped moments before she reached it. Alya almost sobbed, shaking with unfulfilled need. "Don’t stop," her voice was trembling, breath ragged, unable to string together any coherent thought except that she _needed_ him not to stop. 

He kissed the curve where her thigh met her hip, everywhere except where she wanted him to. "Beg me," he whispered against her sensitive skin.

She opened her eyes a fraction. She'd pleasured herself with a dream of him that looked just like this. God, that was _nothing_ compared to real life. Alya didn't know how to do this. "I-I can’t—I-" she squirmed as he teased her slit, the tips of his fingers, spreading her wetness around. 

"Beg me." He looked up at her, cheeks flushed, curls a riot where she'd pulled it, lips bruised and glossy. “I want to hear you say it.”

He angled her lower, and slid two fingers inside her all the way. She cried out, eyes clamping shut, as she clenched around him. Tom cursed under his breath. They made a slick noises as he drove them in and out at a painstakingly slow pace, shorting out her senses, her hips moving of their own accord to reclaim his fingers with each thrust. It wasn't enough. His eyes were almost black with lust and determination as she shuddered, completely undone and desperate for him. She couldn't bear it anymore, she needed him to make her come.

_"Please, Tom. Please."_

"There we are." He nudged her to lie down flat, closed his eyes and dove back in again. The entire world tilted away, there was nothing else but him, drinking and licking her, his fingers curling inside rapidly. Wave after wave of pleasure rushed up her breast, arched up her spine, and down her toes. He drilled her clit with the tip of his tongue in a more forceful rhythm. Alya threw her head back, grabbing onto his hair, crying out his name, as she raced towards the edge of that precipice. He sucked her sensitive nub, hard. The pull from his lips combined with his thrusting fingers, undid her. Her inner muscles clenched tight around him, a burst of white light in her vision as she came with a scream. He kept going with soothing licks, drawing out her climax. Her legs jerked beneath his hold, and she whimpered helplessly, not knowing if she wanted to shove him or beg him to never stop. Another wave of release pierced through her. 

Trembling and boneless, her chest heaved in and out, trying to remember how to breathe as she came down. Her eyes peeled open, and she was still a bit dizzy. Tom gave a small peck on her inner thigh and slid his fingers out. She knew he'd been enthralled by the sight of her lost in pleasure and the intense orgasm he gave her. 

Alya eased herself to sit up. He stood, his lips wet with her, he raised his hand and licked her essence off each finger with savage delight. She could only watch wordlessly, feeling shy. She said all those things, made those sounds, let him do that to her, _begged_ him to. He planted both hands at either side of her hips with a satiated smile. 

“So quiet. Nothing more to say?” He crooned softly. “I’ll take this as your surrender.”

He leaned in to kiss her, her hand shot out and grabbed his jaw before he could. Alya tugged him to her by the clasp of his trousers, deftly undoing them. She stuffed her hand in, what she found exceeded her expectations, by far. Both groaned when she wrapped her fingers around him. His shaft was thick, hot, covered with velvety smooth skin, in stark contrast with rigid strength beneath. Her legs trembled anew, core aching for him to be inside of her, to fuck her recklessly- but her mind was sharper now, and she did not want it like this, in a stolen moment, both of them almost fully dressed. But she would not let him leave this place thinking he had anything over her.

Alya licked her hand and wrapped around him again. At the first stroke he tensed with gritted teeth, the intensity of his gaze piercing through her. She squeezed, wringing a strained moan from him, and his tension melted away like butter. Satisfied by his reaction to her, she ran her thumb over the tip, spreading the moisture beaded there, and pulled and stroked him. She caressed his cheek, and brought his opened mouth to hers. She caught his bottom lip between her teeth and bit down. As Tom hissed in pain, he grabbed onto the hair at her nape with coiled lust. His reddened lips collided onto hers, and she nearly lost her hold. He plundered her mouth, she moaned around his tongue as it lashed against hers, it tasted of him and her. 

She pumped him faster, and he broke away, shuddering. _"Alya,"_ he whispered, a cross of anguish and pleasure etched on his face, cheeks and neck flushed brilliantly with colour. Only she could do this to him, and she'd never felt more powerful. Tom fell forward against her neck, staccato breaths gusting over her collarbone, the brush of his lashes tickled her skin. He braced himself against the table with ragged moans, and thrust his hips forward. She needed to see him come, he could not deny her that. Alya held his jaw and forced him to meet her gaze as she quickened her pace. He surged towards his peak, the hardness pulsed and uncoiled. His eyes fluttered close and he dropped his head back lost in ecstasy, her name tearing from his throat, an image she never wanted to forget.

They breathed in unison, and she reluctantly let him go, the heat of him lingered on her palm. Tom gave a long exhale, as his dazed eyes came back to earth and to her, his breaths slowing. He did a hasty cleaning spell over them, as they adjusted their clothes, he stopped looking at her, his strangled emotions suffocating the the air between them. Desire, yearning, but there was a hint of...regret. Like she was something he despised himself for giving in to. That one drop, poisoned the well. If he was so repulsed by her and his desire for her why did he bring her there? He was a series of masks and contradictions, too complex for her to ever understand. 

_He still doesn't care about you. He'll never be yours._ Her heart fluttered like the wings of a caged bird, a stabbing pain in her chest, her throat thick.

She refused to watch him flee and shatter her heart again. 

"Alya-" 

"We both got what he wanted," her voice sounded very far away from the room. "So get out of my way." 

He opened and closed his mouth, a rare sight, for Tom Riddle to be rendered speechless. Alya hopped off the table and shouldered past him and out the door. He didn't follow. 

* * *

**Thanks for reading everyone. Finally we've come to a smut scene. I've never written anything like this before, I literally could not believe I was doing it lol**

**See you next time!**


	16. Ghosts of the Past

**_ALYA_ **

Alya rushed up the stairs to her hotel floor. She could hole up in her room and wait for Willem, finally unburden everything about Tom to someone else. Yet that idea might not be great. Willem was far too practical when it came to romance, which was probably why he wasn't good at it and had a difficulties sustaining her cousins interest. After a long-winded story about her obsession over a boy, his advice would be; “just forget about him. Move on.” Besides, she didn’t want to talk to someone whom had the emotional intelligence of a spoon. He would never understand the layers of emotions she felt for Tom, or was currently trying _not_ to feel.

There was no way she could tell Willem what happened barely an hour ago in an abandoned bookstore, either. He would go crimson at the inappropriateness of it. She never had a romantic encounter like that before, so rushed and almost public if anyone had burst through the door. Although she hoped Tom had the common sense to put a lock charm on it. _Romantic?_ There was nothing _romantic_ about what they did. If it were, she would be swooning right now instead of losing her mind over the regret she saw in him after. They sated their desire for one another, nothing more. In all other cases, she would be satisfied, not feel so..incomplete. It wasn't sex she wanted. She selfishly wanted _more,_ there was nothing wrong with that- but there was nothing more for him to give. Alya wished Guinevere were around, another woman who would listen and help her dissect it all.

She shut her door and changed into a new dress and underwear, before pouring herself a glass of vodka. Perhaps, she should keep what transpired between them like a sordid secret. But Alya could not give him the satisfaction of her obedient silence. That was what he wanted, and she had her own side of things that deserved to be heard too. Alya needed her cousins’ ruthless advice. She took out parchment and ink and penned a letter to Guinevere, writing an abridged version of what happened with Tom, sending it via the hotel’s owl courier.

She spread herself on the bed, staring at the canopy above. She wished Willem was back, just to be a distraction, so she wouldn't be alone to analyse her thoughts and intentions. _So_ _he kisses you_ _like that and fingers you— what did you expect? A marriage proposal?_ Alya grabbed a pillow and screamed into it. She wished she could scream everything out. _Forget about him, forget, forget._

Wanting Riddle had replaced her nightmares. As if he were the bandage over everything else that was in upheaval in her life; her mother, her inheritance, her guilt. They’d return in full effect, now. Maybe she should visit Paris again, find Beatrice Le Borgne before the heiress was chained to a man in holy matrimony. They could snag another rugged artist to share for the evening and she could forget Riddle. Or she could go to Gringotts and ask for harder contracts, anything that could take her far away from Britain. Something dangerous, until the thrill she got from Tom’s stare and mouth on hers was replaced by adrenaline and adventure. Until the flames she felt for him were smothered by a life more spectacular and more exciting than being with him could ever be. 

It’s worked before. When she ran away to find her mother, to prove something to herself and the world she left behind— that she didn’t need them and their poisonous purebloods ideals, that she wouldn’t stand for their mistreatment, and that she was better off without them. And for a while, she managed to trudge through life thinking it was enough, until she no longer believed her own lies. Alya couldn’t deny hollowness within her. She could handle being alone and independent— but being alone and loneliness were two vastly different concepts. 

Riddle wasn’t going to absolve her of her guilt over Skarsson’s death, or fix any of her other problems for her, even if there was something between them that would always feel unfinished. He had his own demons to battle and she had hers.

She poured herself another glass when she heard footsteps from Willem’s room next door. It was too early to be back from the convention. “Willem? Are you back?” Alya knocked the door unlocked. “I’m coming in.” Her room was neat out of habit, because her grandmother was strict about tidiness, whereas Willem’s was a mess of parchment and books. _Some things never change._ Even if he was well dressed on the surface, he would always have that agitated academician energy about him before big exams or presentations.

“Willem?”

She barely crossed the threshold when the door slammed shut behind her. She spun around, raising her wand, the first spell on her lips, when she was knocked into the bed frame. The iron from them curled over her like tree roots, encaging her.

Alya’s blood went cold. The ghosts were real, and they were stalking towards her with an evil leer. 

“M-Magnus?”

He disarmed her, her wand flying into his palm. “Seeing ghosts?” He taunted. Every time she felt she had been followed, when she thought she'd seen a wisp of his hair. It was him. He had been waiting to kill her, all this time, preparing for the right moment to attack her.

Fear struck her too hard to even speak or cry or rage. But as she swept over the face of the man she killed she realized that this version of him had a sharper jaw, and straighter hair. It wasn’t Magnus’ ghost. It was much worse.

“Argus.”

_"Somnium."_

Alya was defenseless, caged and wand-less. As much as she struggled to fight the fingers of sleep drawing her eyes close. She lost, the world plunging into darkness. 

* * *

**_TOM_ **

She left him.

He made her come apart with his hands and mouth, _felt_ her come apart around him. She’d begged him to, crying out for him—and then walked out the door with the same expression she gave him when she walked out the bar. Cold. Emptiness.

His first instinct was to grab her and demand whom she thought she was to leave him like with such icy indifference- but his arms hung by his side, bereft. Crude thoughts struck him out of rage. So what if she left? Good riddance. She was _nothing_. She was out of his life. She would die one day, dust in the wind, while Tom remained immortal. He got he what he wanted; part of her to surrender to him, to be _his_ , prove that she was just like any other man or woman who wanted him, and for the power she had over him to be relinquished.

Except, as he remained standing there, watching the door hinges swing—his scars started to violently _ache,_ a goring pain that made him nauseous. Until he had to clutch the area to make sure he wasn’t actually stabbed, when he realized the hollowness of his victory, the pointlessness of it. Tom ran his fingers through his hair. It was a gesture he never did for it wrecked the composed image of him he worked tirelessly to maintain. But he was _fidgeting_ because of her. He was such a fool for thinking his madness would cease after he made her surrender to him—it was only getting worse.

He knew the sting of rejection from his peers before they understood his power. He’s dealt with Dumbledore’s misgivings about him for years. But this was a type of rejection that was exquisitely painful, and could only be inflicted by her.

Alya Moore was the only person who’d ever liked him as Tom Riddle, not the dark lord, not the Heir of Slytherin, _him_.

And she still didn’t want him.

The worst part; he’d willingly shared the grey parts of his past with her. The disgusting, weak parts he avoided voicing out loud his entire life before he met her, because he knew how they would diminish him in the eyes of purebloods. Yet she still liked him in spite of it. Even if she showed pity or empathy- emotions she had that he could never understand -he liked her even more for it. It gave her the depth that set her apart. Tom never thought he could appreciate someone for the goodness in their soul, instead of scorning it, because within Alya he saw a light that he did not see in anyone else. 

But she left him, anyway.

_S_ _ee what happens when you bare your soul to someone? They crush it. They leave you._ This was why he stayed apart, this is why the concept of those relationships were impossible for him, _unrealistic_. Tom should have learnt his lesson, moved on with it like a chapter revised in a textbook, instead-his heart joined in the symphony of pain. He could not even think of her as an 'enemy' in this instance, no enemy could ever touch him, or kiss him, or make him smile the way she did. They had many differences in their world-views, but none of that mattered when the world fell away when they were together.

Tom wasted so much time denying the extent of his attraction to her, trying to uncover a dark secret about her he could use against her because she bruised his ego, challenged and defied him, _laughed_ at him. In a turn of fate, he’d fallen under her spell, just as his filthy Muggle father once had with his mother. Except there was _no_ spell! This was _him,_ and his true emotions. Tom did not know which was more pathetic; him or his father.

He did not regret her, he could never regret her— he only regretted taking it too far, because he did not know how to get over this giant personal hurdle— that while he felt so much for her, it was so hard to admit it to himself or to her. If he said it out loud and trusted her, _really_ trusted her with his heart—he would become an exposed nerve; open to pain, hurt, rejection, and ridicule. More than he already experienced.

When she adoringly caressed his cheek and bit his lip—an intoxicating mix of pain and pleasure, he was engulfed in all-consuming need for release, and _need_ for her. He never experienced that before, never thought it was possible for him. She eclipsed everything else in his life. _This is what I need, this is all I need,_ he'd thought, when she made him come and lose control. Tom did not recognise the man he was in that moment. He did not know what words would rush out of his mouth to further bare his soul for her to take.

But then he was struck with memories of his mother whom was weakened and cursed by romantic desires and _love_ , that lead to her death. Tom refused to live out her mistakes, refused to share any more of his body, his soul with anyone, refused to be _weak._ If that meant he had to let Alya go, then so be it. He already cheated death, he could cheat himself out of his this too. 

Except...

Tom could never go back to the endless cold of his life, even though it was comfort and familiarity- not when Alya Moore lived and breathed in this world. When her laugh coaxed a grin from him, when she sparked the thrill of living within him, when she smiled at him so sweetly his heart clenched. When he was mesmerized by her unhinged bursts of power, when he’s seen what pleasure looked like on her face; curled lashes squeezed shut, lips open to the skies and calling his name. It should be enough, but it wasn’t. It may never be enough.

The embers had been fed, and they demanded more.

Tom needed to see her, just one more time, he told himself. What came after the 'just once more' he would figure out once he saw her, spoke to her in full. She was too unpredictable for him to simply leave it alone and find her another day. He went to the public owlery first, bribed the staff to contact him if she showed up. He found her hotel easily, deducing she would be staying somewhere under the Aquilla patronage. He inquired with reception, they explained she used the owl courier, and when he asked the staff to check if she in her room, there was no answer. The waiting game began. Tom sat in the hotel lobby, and when knee would not stop jerking he paced outside, running through different scenarios and scripts. He needed to have a plan this time, instead of strutting to her like a hapless fool blurting utter nonsense.

He never had to pursue someone before. He’s never had to ask for what he wanted, or tell someone exactly how he felt about them, or how they made him feel. People were so pliable; they listened to him without fail and took his orders. If he didn’t get it, he’d manipulate, coerce, curse or blackmail to get what he wanted. He could see now, that he used these tactics with Alya, and it had gone horribly wrong from the beginning. The fact that he was calling it ‘tactics’ was terrible, when he should have just been honest with her.

Women have tried to seduce him, charm him, but Tom always had the upper hand, there was always a deception, something for him to gain. It was a mindless game to him, like playing chess blindfolded, and he was in complete control of the situation from start to end. Not this time. Caution forgotten and control seized by Alya. Tom was just a reed being dragged along by the whims of her currents. 

He couldn't even bemoan the fact that he was waiting for her to return like a sad lapdog. But Tom was determined to see this through to the end. Rationally, he could predict the outcome: cold emptiness. He's never seen anyone achieve that blankness he was a master of, and he hated seeing it in her, especially when it was directed at him. Why would it be any different this time?

But Tom had hope, a sliver of it, that he could craft the right words to make her turn around and walk back to him. _Hope._ It was like childhood memory that did not belong to him, but Alya Moore had him feeling that too.

He's convinced countless others to listen to him, he could convince her too. The goodness of her would want to see the goodness in him, wherever it was. Tom knew he deserved to be surrounded by the best of his kind, and that was her. He wanted her. She would see that he was worth it. But he had to ask for it, and hope. No power, no manipulation. Just...hope. God's great game that he had no control over. 

One hour turned to two, then four, until the hours became a blur of anxious waiting. In between, he popped into the hotel to grab lunch, eating as fast as he could, in case he would miss her. She never showed up at the owlery either. Back at the hotel, dinner passed, andstill no sign of her. Tom had a fleeting notion that maybe she snuck out under his nose the moment she saw him waiting. He inquired with reception and she had not checked out either. He sat and read to pass the time. When the clock struck midnight, he was wide-awake and restless. Maybe his plan had been futile from the start. What the fuck was he doing? What if she’d met someone else? What if she was already seeing someone?

He saw Willem strolling down the pavement, waving goodbye to a group of men across the street. Tom stared and questioned why Alya ever had a crush on this square of a pureblood prince. Willem looked like the least interesting person ever, so unlike her. At least his Slytherin’s had some backbone. Aquilla was useless and spineless. 

“Aquilla.”

Willem smiled wide, reminding him of a stupidly happy dog. _Well, you and I are both muts aren't we? Trailing behind the legs of a girl_. Tom never had anything against him, now just the sound of his breath annoyed him. What gave him the right to be a in a good mood whilst his was abysmal?

“Oh, Riddle!” He drawled. “What are you —“

Tom had no time for pleasantries. “Have you seen Alya?”

“Oh, I haven’t.”

“She mentioned you had dinner plans.”

“Didn't happen. She never showed up, but 'twas probably for the best. After the convention a few lads and I went for a pint. It would have been terribly boring for her—“

Tom could not give two sickles about Willem’s ‘drinks with the lads’. He took a deep breath before he lost his temper. “If she’s not with you. Where is she?”

“Merlin, do I know,” Aquilla shrugged, his brows furrowing. “If it’s urgent I could pass on a message for you, whenever I see her next.”

“It’s all right,” he almost made a face at that God-awful suggestion. “Have you heard from her though?”

“I’m afraid not. When she didn’t meet me, I assumed she had other matters to attend to.”

Tom frowned. If Willem was supposed to be her best friend in the whole bloody world shouldn’t he care, or at least be _concerned_ that she disappeared without any explanation for _ten_ hours? Aquilla’s laissez-faire attitude was getting on his nerves. “It’s midnight. It’s getting rather late without any news from her,” said Tom.

He merely shrugged, sniggering. “That’s Alya for you. But she is here on work; being a curse-breaker involves a lot of odd hours. She didn’t return until dawn the first day here, tracking down those scrolls.”

That was not abating his concern in the slightest. “I see.”

“Sorry, what was it you needed her for?”

“Nothing,” he shook his head. _Useless._

“She’ll be back soon. I’ll tell her you dropped by.”

Tom said goodbye and walked off. A knot of anxiety tightened inside of him. He was worried. This sort of concern was new to him too. His followers were disposable to him, and lack of communication meant they failed in a mission. Alya going missing for ten hours could mean a whole of host of things. She could be caught up somewhere with work, or she’d abruptly returned to London earlier and left her belongings, or she could be hurt, or—

He was overthinking it. _She’s probably at a bar somewhere, with_ someone _and lost track of time._ His stomach turned with jealously. None of this changed the fact that he still needed to see her. He could come back tomorrow, but what if she left town before he could? He would need to seek her out in London, but her freelancing contracts could take her halfway across the world within the next twenty-four hours.

Tom retrieved her serpent pin from his things. He’d kept it with him, taking it everywhere he went, hoping to return it to her one day. She wouldn’t like him tracking her but he could not wait any longer, he wouldn’t be able to rest until he knew there was nothing to be concerned about. “ _Avensegium,”_ an orange plume of light dusted over the pin. It floated out of his palm and darted through the air, Tom trailing quickly behind it.

* * *

**ALYA**

She woke on the cold hard ground, disoriented. When she moved her limbs, iron chains tightened around her ankles. Horrified she fought them harder, but to no avail. The ones on her hand were shaped like fists, enclosing her hand within them, preventing her from doing any wandless magic. She was trapped. Argus Skarsson wanted vengeance, and now he had her, and was ready to collect.

He was nowhere in sight though. She was the hollow of a cave, iron bars trapping her in. A raspy noise came from in front of her and she shrieked. She squinted harder against the faint candlelight. There was a man, leaning on the wall across from her. She had not noticed him when she woke, he was swathed in the darkness of the cave. He was bound like her but he did not wear the special fist-shaped chains. "Who are you?" She asked, her throat dry. He made muffled noises that sounded like pleas and sobs, but she could not understand a word of it. He was middle-aged, receding hairline of salt and pepper hair, and bushy brows. 

"Can you understand me?" 

"He doesn't have his tongue." Another voice, a woman's, to the man's left. Alya moved forward on her knees, hesitantly as far as the chains would let her go. "He took it," the accent was Irish. "He's muggle." 

A quick scan of his clothing confirmed that, he stared at the pair of them listlessly. The man knew they were witches, but he did not expect to live long enough to tell the tale. A flicker of light gave her a better glimpse of the woman. She was a handful of years older than Alya, with shoulder length auburn hair matted and limp, and pale skin. She looked gaunt, despite her rounded features, with grey circles under her eyes from tiredness and dehydration. Her coat and clothes stained with dirt and sweat. 

"Why does he take them?" Alya asked, disquiet making her panic even more. She has delved into the black markets before, but never into anything this sick and twisted. 

"Fuck knows," she muttered.

If Alya could figure out how to removed her binds, she could help both of them too and they could escape together. The others had been there for longer, and would be weaker than her, but together they could overwhelm Argus. They had to try. She refused to die in a damp, cold, cave. She heard the distant chink of chains and turned. In a cell across from the one she shared with the two strangers, she could make out the features of a man, leaning on the wall, long black hair and dark brown robes. Another wizard, gagged and chained. 

"Who's that?" Alya asked. 

"No idea. Skarrson keeps him far away from us. Treats him a little better too, more water and all that." 

Alya took a deep breathe, she could not let her panic overwhelm her she had to figure out a way to escape this place. "What's your name?"

The woman stared at her, eyes squinted as if to measure Alya up. "Roisin O'Creed." 

_Muggle-born._ "I'm-" 

"Oh we know who you are," Roisin said, loathingly. "Alya Moore. He's been looking for you. Fucking pureblood bitch," she spat, the words so venomous Roisin may as well have slapped her. She then angled her chin at the Muggle near them, who was no longer listless, but was glaring at Alya. Her name struck a chord in him. "You don't recognise him do you?"

Alya swallowed uneasily, and tried a little harder, staring at the Muggle man. Shock crashed into her. She did recognise him, a boatman from Greece she interacted with him when she went with Magnus and her mother.

_My_ _mother._ Where was she? Was her mother already dead? They were so stupid to think that Argus wouldn't seek them after his brother went missing. To think she could even handle him! The guilt sawed through her, when Alya realised the cost of her actions. This innocent man, kidnapped and tortured, _losing his tongue_ because she chose to kill someone, because she reacted with violence and gave into dark impulses, because she too angered and _weak_ to resist them. 

She met the man's eyes. It was difficult, to face the burning hate there. "I'm sorry, I-I didn't know he would do this." He gnashed his teeth at her, harsh mumbling noises emitted from him, unable to say a word to damn the woman that cost him his life.

Alya crawled back to her corner of the cell feeling useless and guilt-stricken. She had spent months being haunted by sins, waiting for her reckoning and here it was. She'd dragged others to hell with her too. They didn't deserve this. But she did. Alya thought she was good, better than the purebloods who mistreated but she was _exactly_ like them. As much as she tried to escape it, to set herself apart with defiance and wickedness. It was a pointless, shameless, lifelong act. Prancing around trying to be half as good as she thought she was. But those were lies she told about herself to make it day by day. She knew what she was. _A monster._ The evil, was in her blood, her head, her heart.

She deserved to die there in that cave, with the ghosts of her sins. 

"It's too late for any apologies," said Roisin, worsening the blow. "You lot only think of yourself don't you? Been like that since the dawn of time. You have no idea what it's like for the rest of us. It was just like this before the wars, the Muggle ones, but wizard-folk aren't any different when you think about it. Look at the Wizangemot. Who they elect, all of it is fucking rigged, the Ministry becoming more totalitarian by the day." 

Roisin was right of course. What had Riddle said about her? When she was angered by what Choubert called Myrtle Warren? _'You're a hypocrite'_ _'all this sweet empathy for a Muggle-born girl you don't even know.'_ Well, he was right about her. She _was_ a hypocrite, more concerned about the skin on her own back than others.

Alya eyes drifted to a badge on Roisin's coat. _Saoirse,_ it read. "That badge of yours-"

"It's freedom. Independence," Roisin replied, a bit of life in her tone, she leaned forward. "From them, from people like your pathetic uncle who's just a pawn, and everyone else in those black marbles halls and purple robes who think they can dictate our lives."

There was a dark wizard whom wanted freedom once, to abolish the International Statute of Secrecy and make the wizard and non-wizard worlds bow to him. "Like Grindelward?" Alya asked quietly, it was an offensive assumption, but she was too curious not to ask. 

_"No._ Course that would be your first guess, but there's more than one type of revolution." She scoffed disparagingly. "What the hell do you know?" Roisin peered away, dejectedly. "Why do I even bother? Not like I'll be able to do anything as long as I'm trapped here." She coughed, sounding weaker with each one. After a while, she gave a long wheeze, settling against the cave wall.

What _did_ Alya know? She's been in a bubble for most of her life, and wilfully ignorant to the politics that did not discriminate against her simply because she had the better last name. Sure, she's gotten cursed and taunted as a 'blood traitor,' but she'd never had her _rights_ threatened to be taken away from her.

_I really am a piece of shit aren't I?_

"You're lucky Skarsson needs you," said Roisin. "He's got plans for you. The rest of us. We're just cattle." 

"Cattle?" 

Alya's chains rattled, she peered at the others helplessly. The air compressed around her, and she was transported out of that cave. Her cheek hit the floor when she landed. She was in a taller cavern of the cave, lit with several large _lumos_ charm floating above them like mini-suns. Argus stood, ten feet from her. His face was clean, and hair washed, but his clothes were unkempt, worn, boots muddied. Yet there was still a sharpness to him that outshone all the exterior faults as he swaggered around with bravado like he was mocking her into fighting. There was a woman floating in the air near his head. 

"Mother?" Alya shrieked, but as she tried to get up the chains dragged her to her knees once more. Argus slowly stepped to her, amused glint in his pale blue eyes. It really was like a staring at a ghost. He looked almost exactly like the twin she murdered. "You son of a bitch. Let her go!" She snarled. Her mother's eyes were closed as if in a peaceful slumber, she might not be able to hear her at all. Despite their differences, their estrangement, none of this was her mother's fault. She's lost her father, her grandparents. Alya could not bear to see have someone else in her life die. 

Something feral took her. Alya wanted nothing more than to batter his head into a bloody mess with her chains and fists. "Let her-"

Argus tisked and drew his wand. _"Crucio."_

One moment she was trying to lunge forward, the next white-hot knives stabbed every inch of her skin. Alya screamed at the top of her lungs, as pure agony consumed her. She did not know who she was, where she was. Her head was splintering, moments from bursting open. Her body jerked violently, limbs twisted to impossible angles, as she screamed and wept, wishing that it would end, wishing for death. 

When the curse lifted, Alya was a sobbing heap on the ground. The pain ebbed away slowly, her head spinning, waves of nausea shuddering through her.

"You're a screamer, aren't you?" Argus remarked. 

Alya opened her mouth to snap in revulsion at him, but she rolled face-forward, heaved and vomited her response. Argus made a disgusted noise, then sighed, bored and impatient, waiting for her to finish. 

She sniffed, wiping her nose and mouth with the back of her trembling hand. With as much dignity as she could muster, she pushed herself up to sit, head pounding, and pulse booming so loud it drowned out every other noise. Alya tried her damnedest to glare at him, even though she felt frail and at least a hundred years older. But why did she even bother? He had her mother, and her. This was it. Was there anyone who actually loved her? Was alive to miss her if she died? She didn't matter to anyone or anything. Her death would make no noise on the world, her life would be snuffed out silently.

Why was she fighting so hard to live?

"If you-" her voice was gravelly, throat burning from the screaming and the bile, "-if you want to kill me just...get on with it." 

"Why? When this is much more fun to watch you suffer," said Argus callously, circling her. "I know what you did. Your mother confessed. So weak. Couldn't even handle an unforgivable curse more than a minute before she caved. So much for _precious_ daughter. She mustn't love you at all." 

She had never met a dark wizard like this before, with such evil depths, too deep for her to even imagine what terror he has inflicted on the world, that no one knew about. This was a man who was keeping people imprisoned, _like cattle,_ and Alya was the selfish idiot whom killed his brother. What was she thinking to play God like that? Argus would draw this out, and Alya knew she was too weak and pathetic to bear it. But Roisin did say that he needed Alya alive for a reason. "What do you want from us?"

"She never told you either? Do you even know this woman?" Argus hooted in laughter, and gestured to her sleeping mother. "It's the big prize, the _biggest_ prize, sweetheart, what my brother wanted. What I want." Alya's stomach gave a violent turn at the disgusting endearment. He pointed his wand at her and she flinched. "You're good at what you do, aren't you? With that face and that voice." His wand tip prodded her cheek, before he strolled away. "You're going to find it for me. It's a spellbook. In it, the instructions needed to carry out magic more ancient than anyone alive." He gathered a few scrolls to deposit in front of her.

"What's the spell?"

He used a charm to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze. His ice-blue eyes had a manic flair to them. "The God given gift of immortality. Find it for me and your mother goes free, and our debt is paid."

That could be an outright lie, but that didn't change the fact that the logistics of this mission was impossible. Anything could happen in the time she took to find this spellbook. Roisin, the muggle boatman, and the wizard he kept imprisoned would be dead. Her mother could be tortured, raped, killed, or worse. He could not promise her their safety.

"This may take me months to find, and in that time my mother is at your mercy-"

"You have one," he raised a finger, speaking so plainly like there weren't lives on the line. "I have the region narrowed for you. I've done most of the work, you just need to retrieve it for me. I know one month isn't a lot, but I'm sure the urgency of your situation is not lost on you, and you will perform to the best of your ability. I wanted to give you less, but your mother asked so nicely for more," he said with sickening sweetness. 

"Why me? There are hundreds more skilled than I am. Than my mother, even."

"There is no one else who be able to hold the spellbook without burning to a crisp. Your mother told me that too. That secret, needed more than a Cruciatus curse to get out of her," he sneered and Alya couldn't keep her gaze steadied on his. "There’s something special about you, Ms Moore. In your Merlin bloodline. You must know that at least. In ancient times wizardfolk consorted with beings that are not of this world; angels, demons. Some of their blood is inside you, and only you can find what I need because of it."

Somehow, she had it in her to give him a defiant smirk. She had nothing to lose, and some of her crazy was bubbling out. "If I'm only the person that can hold it, then what's the point of me finding it for you if you die the moment you touch it?" 

"Merlin," Argus rolled his eyes. "You can be thick, can't you? Perhaps you needed that extra year of school," he said. "You'll come here and break the curse over it, of course. You’ll report to me weekly, and I'll keep a track of you with this." He flicked his wand, and her grandmother's necklace-one she did not even realise she was missing-floated around her neck. Alya hissed, the the dark magic in it touched her skin like a brand. There was a tracking charm inside it. "Take that off, and you slit your own throat, quite an anti-climatic end. Don't worry, your mother will be taken care of." Argus twisted a finger in her mother's hair, with doting consideration. "You'll just have to trust me on that one." 

Alya wanted to retch again. There was really nothing she could do to escape him and her fate. Something this powerful should never be in his hands, but she had to find it if she had any hope of saving her mother. _Selfish, so selfish._ Roisin was right. Alya only thought of herself. 

"What about the others?"

"Others?" Argus was genuinely confused. "You mean the muggle _scum?"_ His cynical laugh sliced through the air, reverberating off the ceiling of the cave. He tossed his blonde head back in mirth.

"Merlin," he wiped a tear from the corner of his eye when he was done. "I had no idea you had such heroics in you, Moore. You really are one of a kind aren't you?" His grin died. "They have prices on their heads, they are none of your concern. You are in no position to bargain with me for their survival _and_ your mothers, you greedy girl." 

She felt sick. Even when she tried to do good, she was shite at it. "And if I don't do any of this?"

"Glad you asked," a look of excitement passed over his features, as he folded his arms behind his back. "I had months to consider your punishment. I had many in mind, very traditional, elegant ones; skinning you alive, drowning you just enough to fill your lungs, before sucking the water out and repeating it--but then _genius_ struck." Argus flourished his hand like a common magician.

"Do you see that vial?" There was a syringe floating just above her mother's throat, filled with a clear liquid. "It contains vampire venom." Argus crouched to her level, she fought a shudder. "By the next full moon, if that spellbook is not found and broken for me, that goes into your mother. If you find it before that, that'll be wonderful, but it doesn't change the punishment if you fail, or try to trick me. Don't forget that necklace is there around your neck."

Her seized her chin, drawing her face close until she could feel his breath ghosting over her cheek. "Once she transforms into a blood thirsty beast, you'll be her first meal," Argus whispered, nails digging into her skin. Alya tried to pull away, but he only dug harder. "Brilliant isn't it? And I know you wouldn't want that fate inflicted on her. Bring me what I need, and I'll spare you both. Merciful, aren't I?" He drew closer until she could feel his cold lips brush her ear;

"You watched that manticore eat my brother alive. If you fail me, I'll get to watch your darling mother suck your blood and tear your body limb from limb."

* * *

**A/N: some of my vampire lore might be borrowed from known pop culture, meaning Twilight and TVD basically, but we're rolling with it, there isn't much in the Harry Potter wiki about how vampires came to be anyway. Our lovers will be reunited soon. Obviously, Tom isn't right in the head when it comes to real relationships. I hope I was able to portray his messed up thought patterns and conflicts. Please leave kudos and comments! Thanks for stopping by, I'll see you soon :)**


	17. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our main characters go through a lot of yearning

_**TOM** _

Tracking Alya took an unexpectedly long time. As he followed the charmed hairpin, it became apparent that it would take him outside of the city. He wasn’t about to do a cross-country marathon to find her. Tom re-worked the charm, using a map of Scotland to help him pinpoint to where she could be.

Tom got a hold of Mulciber via owl to find a portkey that could take him to the highlands. He interrupted a rowdy drinking session, but Mulciber sobered up at the sight of his dark lord and did as he was told, no questions asked. 

The portkey took Tom to the Caledonian forests. By then the sky was lightening in pale blues to a fiery orange in the horizon. The ancient pinewood forests stood sentinel around him, steeped in old magic, and medieval folklore, from what he learnt in History of Magic. The trees were there long before Tom was born, but he found comfort in knowing he would be with them in the decades to come, becoming something majestic in his own right. He reminisced of the nights he snuck into the Forbidden Forest, thanks to Professor Slughorn's ineptitude. He'd charmed the potions professor into giving him anything he required to carry out his plans.

Tom observed and listened, to the stillness of the nature around him, smelt the moss and fresh dew. People often thought of the forest as quiet, but they were anything but. He hiked up a small hill beneath needled shadows, and saw Alya in a clearing. A quick spell confirmed they were the only two humans for hundreds of miles.

She looked safe and unscathed, but what was she doing out here? She stared at the outline of the moon before it was chased away by the sun. Her magical spirit reached him, like an old perfume. He would feel it even in a crowd of a thousand. Nature became impossibly silent in her presence, as if to welcome their queen for her coronation. He tasted silver. Remnants of dark magic hung over her, but beneath, her power pulsed like a giant's heartbeat, brimming with life.

He was struck with the oddest thought; that him and her were Gods at the dawn of time, poking the stars into the fabric of the night, raising tree saplings, their footsteps indenting the earth. The world entirely theirs to transform. It made him feel ten feet tall. Tom knew that if he looked into her eyes that were forthright, perceptive, and strong he could be reduced to nothing beneath her regard. Then rebuilt anew, brick by brick. How could he possibly articulate these complex feelings to her to make her understand? He doesn't know how it happened, but he can't recall the last time someone's opinion of him mattered so much to him. 

And then she was gone again.

* * *

_**ALYA** _

She sat down at the fountain in Muggle Edinburgh, dropping the scrolls by her feet. The city was waking, the castle a silhouette atop the hill. Her stomach still did nauseating flips as effects of the _Crucio_ wore off. Alya touched the diamond teardrop at the base of her throat. Argus turned it into a noose. The gift from her grandmother was forever cursed. Just like Alya's blood was. Was there anything in her life that wasn't? She could still feel his cold lips by her ear. She shivered, hugging herself. But the cold was a wet blanket that had seeped down to her marrow. 

Once Argus threw her into the middle of the forest with her wand and the maps, the silent trees hammered in her reality. The task she was burdened with, was heavy, it's weight borne on her shoulders. Alya's faced impossible odds before, but never with stakes like these. She was a puppet, strings pulled by Argus, and the hatred she wanted to spew about him could corrode iron. But it would be pointless waste of energy she did not have.

She needed a plan. Find the spellbook, figure out how to remove the cursed necklace without killing herself. She rubbed at her face, exhausted, but a manic energy was building within her. There would be no hope of rest for the next month. Alya could mope and lament for days on Roisin, her mother, and that poor, innocent Muggle man. But she didn’t have time for that. She had a mission to complete.

At the scuff of shoes on gravel, Alya reacted blindly, volleying a pale-blue curse. A dark-haired figure re-directed it to the sky. The light died down, and she saw _him._

"What the hell are you doing here?" 

Tom had the gall to look offended by her harsh greeting. Alya felt as if the breath had been robbed from her lungs. 

"I could have hit you!" She somehow found the ability to breathe again. She hated her concern that her curse could've shredded his flawless skin. She hated that the anger towards him boiling her blood was the first warmth she felt since Argus kidnapped her. 

"Is something wrong?"

After the ordeal she went through, it was a blessing to see him. Who would have believed it? That her melancholic loneliness was cured by the someone she'd despised not too long ago. But she asked her questions as passive aggressively as she could, because the last person she would ever let herself be vulnerable in front of was Tom Riddle.

"How did you find me?" 

He blinked at her as if she'd spoken in a foreign tongue. "I-you, you didn’t come back to your hotel."

Hearing Tom Riddle tongue-tied would never get old. "What were you doing at my hotel?"

"Looking for you."

Her heart stuttered at what it implied. Tom still wore clothes from yesterday, a black waistcoat over a crisp white shirt. She liked him in that. He had been waiting for her the entire night. He looked stricken; he could not steady his gaze on her, his hair was oddly mussed. "I ran into Willem. He said you didn’t show up for dinner. Not that he minded too much, too busy getting drinks with his colleagues." He said, disdainfully. 

She'd totally forgotten about Willem, but he was the last person on her mind. Tom approached tentatively. Alya gripped her wand, her throat choked with emotion. He raised his hand to her cheek with such concern, it made her tender heart ache. “Are you-are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Alya swatted his hand aside. He dropped it, curling it into a tight ball, the walls came over him. Holding himself back from her, as usual, as if she were a poison to his mind. 

"There’s dark magic lingering around you."

"How did you—?"

His wand was slightly raised, and her temper flared. She had about enough of dark wizards assaulting her with magic. "Don’t," she said in clipped tones. "Don’t try any sneaky spells on me without asking me. I hate that." 

"Were you cursed?" 

"Tom—I swear to God." 

He scanned her like a wisened healer; "Cruciatus."

She had to pause. It was amazing. He didn't need to cast a spell, he could tell with one assessment of her appearance. Tom would never cease to be exceptional to her. "How do you know that?" 

“I was once a practice target.”

_“You?”_ She expected him to say something about the magical signature of the curse, not his actual experience. She could not imagine Tom ever being the victim of Unforgivable curses. But there was a time when he was another half-blood freak, and teenage boys could be cruel. _And they grow into cruel men._

“You should sit, the nausea afterwards—is the worse.”

Alya was plopping into the lip of the fountain before he finished the sentence, her head doing the spins again. “Who did this to you?” He sat beside her, but not as close as she thought he would. She had to ignore the tinge of disappointment. She removed a glove and touched her cheek, jagged abrasions had formed after the fall on the cave floor. Alya didn't want him to see her like this. 

She wanted him leave.

She wanted him to hold her.

She bit the inside of her cheek. It took everything not to spill the truth to him, wail, and rage. Let the storm within her be stilled by his calm. Somehow, she'd gone from hating his existence to this inconceivable wanting. 

“This is none of your concern, Tom."

But he was nothing if not persistent. "Yes it is.”

“Just-"

“You have to tell me." It was a demand, an order. 

“Don’t worry. It wasn’t any of your charming friends. So you can sleep without a guilty conscience tonight,” she said with a withering look she immediately regretted. A flash of hurt struck him, like she'd taken a blade and reopened the scar at his temple. 

His eyes were dark as coal, mouth a firm line, words sharp and grating. "What Travers did to you, was deplorable, Alya. A heinous crime committed by someone who thinks too highly of themselves. He crossed too many lines."

“It doesn’t matter. He got away with it, they always do.”

“But he didn’t!” Tom snapped. Alya stared at him, taken aback by the chaos swirling in his eyes. Evander was severely ill after he cursed her, what did Tom know of his condition?

He shook his head, pinched the bridge of his nose, and took a few deep breaths. When he spoke, his temper was astoundingly steady. “Whatever trouble you’re in Alya, I can help you.”

Alya wanted to throw her arms around him. She still felt the fit of his palm at her waist, the press of his lips on hers. But she was resigned to her fate. She could not drag anyone else into this mess with her, especially not Tom. "I’m not in trouble, and I don’t need your help.”

“Don’t be stubborn," he said tersely, muscles in his cheek twitching. 

Normally, she hated to be spoken to that way, but he wasn't wrong. Alya let the ice close over her heart. Involving him would mean telling him _everything,_ letting someone in on the truth of her dark sins, on what was wrong with her. She would never be ready for that. She's seen what it's done to others; her mother, Argus, Roisin-the way they looked at her changed. Alya wanted Tom to look at her the way he did when they danced, when he listened to her stories, when they were breathless in-between kisses. She wanted to preserve that idea of her within him like a dragonfly in amber. 

"I am not being stubborn Tom, this is work and it has nothing to do with you. Please respect that." 

“Does this have to do with Skarsson?”

“No.” She lied, whether smooth or not, she knew what would be the final nail in the coffin to kill whatever they had. The sun was rising behind them, in beautiful golds and pinks, but they only had eyes for one another. Searching. Longing.

“I thought things were done between us. We don't owe each other anything. Didn’t I make it clear to you, yesterday?”

His lips pressed together, petulantly. “You didn’t say much before you left. That's why I looked for you, so it could be clear for me. You owe me that at least." 

What more did he want? _Tell him you like kissing him. Tell him you're too different from one another. Tell him anything. Everything._ She yearned to seek comfort and solace in his warm embrace, for him to hold her and tell her all would be well, even if it were a lie. But she thought of those untouchable parts of him, the distance after their kiss, and she could not do it. She could not speak what was in her heart when she thought of her mother and the others captive. There was so much else was on the line. 

"You are...complicating things for me, Tom. What else do you want me to say?"

His jaw was rough but controlled. Yet Alya saw the war raging inside of him. The tight hold on his wand. The pleading in his eyes. “Say you feel nothing for me. Say you don’t want me. Say you want me to leave and I’ll go, and you’ll never see me again. I mean it, I’ll listen.”

How could he ask her to lie? There was more he wanted to say, not _ask_ of her, but he didn't, or maybe he did not know how to. “Then I suppose this is goodbye." 

A breathless moment moved between them. He did not protest or argue. He did not wait a second longer. He stood, icy blankness enveloping him. "Very well," Tom gathered her hand, the one that was still gloved. He pressed a searing kiss at the bare strip of flesh that ran between the edge of her glove to her sleeve, but his eyes regarded her like a total stranger. 

“Goodbye, Alya." 

Her hand remained weightless by her side long after he was gone. The press of his last kiss, tattooing her hand. Her bottom lip trembled and the chasm widened within her. The empty park and quiet fountain, spiked her awareness: that she was very much alone. 

. . . 

The next month flew by at an alarming rate. The meetings with Argus made her skin crawl. She fell into a pit of despair every time she saw her mother levitating in a dreamless slumber like a caged animal. Alya tried multiple complex spells to break the tracking charm over her diamond necklace. They failed or she was too afraid to go through with it at risk of harming herself. She despised cowardice, especially in herself, but she was no use to anyone dead.

Argus was being tight-lipped about the contents of the spellbook. But Alya was meticulous with her research, and scoured Britain and Wales. The spellbook was in the Caledonian forests based on what he gave her. But she could not find a shred of evidence in Magical History that there was any fabled book to do with Merlin and immortality. After all, it could only be held by her, because of her blood.

_'Angels, demons. Some of their blood is inside you.'_

She visited a genealogist for more information on that; sitting in stuffy office with dusty scrolls and tomes, with an old wizard regarding her condescendingly. "My dear," he tisked. He kept using that annoying endearment. It was not off to a good start. "How do you not know the legend of your forefather? The most brilliant warlock to have ever lived!"

She smiled as demurely as she could. "His past is rarely discussed in my family." She asked him for more specifics on Merlin's birth and childhood. 

"It's a good thing you came here. As the legend would have it, Merlin was born when a demon, an incubus, took the virtue of his mother. His mother was prosecuted for adultery while she was pregnant with him. She was already promised to a local priest, you see. Once Merlin was born, he was not like any normal babe. He was larger, cleverer, and miraculously he could speak. The demon returned, and with Merlin's aid as a witness, his mother was declared innocent. I'm appalled you do not know this young lady! Did your History of Magic professor not cover this?" 

Alya swiftly left after she got what she needed, her stomach turning. These were just legends. But Skarsson, even her own mother believed them enough. What if it was true? How could she have presumed that she could have the blood of _angels._ With all the purity and goodness they represented. Some small part of her was _demon._ She was beginning to understand why there was so much violence and darkness nestled within her.Alya constantly fought a spasm of revulsion at her blood, it could bring about waves of nausea.

It was a damning truth about her she still grappled with. Merlin started off as a dark wizard too, but the public liked to leave that part out when they regaled tales of his greatness, how he taught the Hogwarts founders before the conception of the school. He found a benevolent path, but he was not the hero on the Chocolate Frog Cards they knew him to be.

God, how she wished she was a nobody who didn't have to take on this responsibility. But people can't choose their blood or their parents, and running from this was the cowards way out. She refused to be a coward. 

. . . 

A week before she was to start trekking the Caledonian forests, Alya was at the end of her rope, nowhere close to narrowing down the specific site within the forests where the spellbook would be. It had to be somewhere large enough to put up protection wards. Unassuming enough that Muggle's wouldn't venture too close. Guinevere decided to visit her at the Suffolk estate. Alya wanted to turn her away, but she didn't have the heart brush off the only family she truly loved. They did a quick stroll by one of the creeks within the estate. A modest (by comparison) forty acres of parkland dotted with small forests filled with countless ponds, creeks, hills and hollows.

They sat by the flowering gardens, the first blush of spring blooms alive with magic; daffodils, tulips and azaleas amongst others. Alya brought her work out, hoping the sunlight would lighten her mood a little. It did not. Her cousin chattered to her as she distractedly listened and read scrolls about Merlin legends she begrudgingly bought from the genealogist. A purchase her vaults would not recover from anytime soon. She discovered more details on the the spellbook Argus wanted. It contained an invulnerability spell, not immortality. Such concepts were independent but they did have overlap. Invulnerability suggested you were could never be harmed, but it did not stop the process of aging. 

The only true immortality Alya came across was the Living dead: inferi, vampires, dhamphirs. There are tales on the Elixir of Life but the last sighting of it's creator, Nicolas Flamel, was over two-centuries ago. She doubted Argus cared there was a difference. But _immortality_ had a nicer ring to it than invulnerability. Merlin used it when he faced the trial of three-three deaths -which he survived.

The gravity of this quest, sat on her chest like a baby elephant. If she gave Skarsson such power, he could become the next Grindelward. Worse than Grindelward if he was willing to kidnap and smuggle Muggles like _cattle_ -

"You've been a little off, lately." 

Alya looked up from her notes. "What?" 

"I said you've been off lately," Guinevere repeated. "And we haven't spoken in ages. I'm worried. Is it about Tom?" 

Alya swallowed uncomfortably. When her days were preoccupied on this quest. In the evenings she would play dissonant notes in the music room. Dejectedly stringing together the ones that rang true with her when they echoed with the essence of him, composing a piece he would never hear. She went to bed dreaming of him and his ungodly beauty. Touching herself to the memory of the top of his dark head between her legs. It was an unhealthy coping mechanism, but she had to make it through the night somehow if she were to function the next day. _'Say you don't want me.'_ What about what _he_ wanted? Why was it so hard to tell her? Did he regret her? Why was he built of so many locked chests?

That wasn't fair. Alya had her secrets too, and her flaws. But how special and _seen_ she felt around him, remained as strong as ever since their goodbye. She's never gone this long without his presence. God how she wanted to stake her claim on him. Make him hers, even though she would never be as great as him, and he would never give too much of himself over to anyone. 

She gave a practical shake of her head. "I don't have time for that, and neither does he." 

"That's a shame. It seemed like you were going start something. I've never seen you write a letter with such passion, talking about how well you got along, how much of a good kisser he is," Guinevere smirked. 

_He's good with his mouth. Sinfully good._

"I saw him at the Aetheneum. He asked about you." 

Alya lowered the parchment, a swarm of butterflies in her tummy. "He's just being polite." She flushed. Should she seek him out? But that would mean retracting everything she said. But it was Tom, he was different. Perhaps he would understand if she told him everything. It would be damning to see him but wonderful too-

_Stop it. You are on a quest that is life or death. You've been tasked to obtain a powerful spellbook that could decimate the world if it lands in the wrong hands. For the love of God, forget Tom._

"I have a lot of work to do, cuz. And you looked like you want to tell me something important when you arrived." 

Guinevere put her tea cup down, more serious. "I'm marrying Leon. Yes, I know you don't like him. He's going to propose tomorrow. I know because he told Victor and Victor told Alessa, who told me." 

"I never told you why, and I should've," said Alya, sighing. "I caught him and Victor, practicing curses on first years. Eleven year olds. So my instant reaction was to hex him and the rest is history." Alya had been a wicked from the moment she was born, from the moment she was conceived it seemed. Who would ever want to be with someone like her? "It was stupid, stupid, mistake. And the British purebloods always had more sway on the board. Grandma said I should have known better, and she was right. My point is; if he did something like that to children, I can't handle the possibility that he could hurt you."

Guinevere at least, looked uneasy. Her cousin was shrewd, and had far more patience to play the societal game than Alya ever did. "He was a child too, and so were you. And it's been years. The Leon I know now, is devoted to me." 

Alya sat beside her. "But what about Willem? Sweet, booksmart, Willem? Won't you give him a chance?" 

She sighed and shook her head, coming to peace with the cards laid out for her. "It's out of my hands." Of course Lacerta would want Rosier. British and wealthy, and Slytherin.

"Why does it have to be like this?" Blurted Alya, frustrated. "Why were these ideals about who are, and whom we're supposed to be, and not be, hammered into our heads when we couldn't even charm our shoelaces? Why did we get put into those stupid houses and have it define the rest of our lives? We were eleven, for God's sake." 

"Are we still talking about Leon and I?" 

"No," Alya huffed, threading a hand through her hair. "I don't know."

"Are you all right, cuz?" Guinevere held her elbow. "This contract you're on, it seems like a lot to be doing by yourself. There's nothing wrong with seeking help, you know." 

"I know. I'm sorry, I don't mean to chase you out, I have a deadline." She gave a poor show of a smile. "And the nerves are getting to me. Please think about what I said before you say yes to him." She kissed her cheek.

"I'm a lot stronger than you think I am, Alya."

"I know you are. You're a Moore, and you've survived this long amongst the snakes." 

Guinevere smiled and stood to leave. She stopped at discarded parchment on the settee, studying it. It was the drawing their grandma left for her. "Do you know what it is?" Alya asked. 

"That looks like the observation arc of a celestial body. The trajectory of it. See the rings, each one represents a planet in our solar system." 

"It's an asteroid," Alya's heart lurched at the breakthrough, feeling better than she had in weeks. "And I think I know which one." 

. . . 

For once, Argus wanted to meet in London. She sat down at the other end of a park bench, discreet behind a large oak tree. He was lounging and leering at Muggle women strolling past, like they were pretty specimens to keep in glass jars. She wanted bash his head on the cobblestones for it.

Her feet were tired from travelling through the Caledonian forests but she finally found the site, using the observation arc of the asteroid, and triangulating it with the Earth coordinates. In Arthurian legends Merlin was trapped in a cave there for some time by a witch. It was obscured by powerful shield wards that reflected the surrounding woodlands and she would need more time to search for weaknesses. Curse-breaking would be so much easier if she had a team with her like more official Gringotts teams in Egypt.

Somehow, the quest she was put on by her enemy, and her grandmother's ramblings fit into one another. It was her destiny to journey there, retrieve the spellbook, and learn what she needed to about herself.

As she opened her mouth to tell him when she found, he made a fist gesture and her necklace tightened around her throat. 

"Did you burn down my family home?" He hissed. Alya gasped for air, fingers scrabbling for her neck.

"W-What?" She rasped, feebly trying breathe. "I didn't even-" 

"Did you or did you not?" 

She had no idea he even had family besides Magnus. Nor would she be stupid enough to attack them when he had her mother hostage. "Why-why would I do that?"

"To weed me out, get my attention."

Alya fumbled for her wand but the choke tightened, her voice reduced to a wisp. "I didn't. I s-swear, you have my-my m-mother." 

His vengeful gaze darkened. "So it was just a funny coincidence that blue fire destroyed my home while my mother and her sister were in it? Do you have accomplices doing your dirty work for you?" 

"I don't, I swear-swear I don't know what happened to-to them. I want to find this-this spellbook as much as you do. " Alya tried to punch his fist. He released the grip. "All right. I believe you."

She wheezed, bending over to cough, black dots floated in her vision. After a moment she straightened with as much pride as she could, although her throat still burned. "Was your family harmed?" If they were _dead,_ so was her mother. 

He looked at her like she was vapid. "I didn't bring you your mother's head, so make an educated guess." Argus relaxed and went back to people watching as if he didn't try to murder her in the middle of Muggle London a moment ago. The nerve he had. "Back to business. What have you found?" 

Alya scratched at her neck, shooting him a toxic glare. "I scouted the location." She tried to keep the venom out of her tone. "There's a protection veil around it, but I can break it." 

"Do it tomorrow then." A lovely blonde reading a book a few benches from them caught his interest. "You're ahead of schedule, very good."

"It has to be two days from now." 

"Why?" 

Alya met his beady eyes. Her other hand discreetly tripped a little girl, the ice-cream she held tumbled over the blonde's dress. The woman got up and left, thankfully, getting as far away as possible from the predatory gaze of Argus Skarsson. It wasn't unheard of that wizards raped Muggles, simply because they could. 

"The veil will be weakest and so will the protections around the spellbook on the day Merlin's asteroid crosses our atmosphere," she said. "It means I can retrieve the book, and break the curse over it more easily. For you." 

What she didn't tell him, was that the opposite was true. The asteroid marked the day the protection wards would be stronger, the curse over the book, more so. But she banked on him to be greedy, that he presumed her fear of him was stronger than her will. _Try to kill me and I will screw you over._ If she was the only person who could wield the book, then Alya decided it was _hers_ via birthright, and she would never allow the powerful magic within it to land in such undeserving hands. 

"Good. Well done." 

"My mother-" 

"She is well," he sneered. "I keep my end of the bargain." 

"The other prisoners, they said you wanted to use them for.. cattle." 

"Curious girl aren't you?" Argus tried to touch her cheek, and she flinched. "Human blood is a lucrative business, and it's always better when it's fresh. The Ministry creates a 'society' to tell us to tolerate and stop eradicating those so-called _beings._ What poppycock. You don't see lions denying their nature when they're at the top of the food chain, why should we? They don't realise the advantage of manipulating the afflictions of these beasts. They can be of great use to us, if you let them eat whomever they want. Preferably Muggles, of course." 

Alya's nose scrunched in disgust. Wizards have been treating other creatures like third-class citizens for millennia, no matter how many guidelines were created to prevent their kind from slaughtering them. "If you try to turn my mother into a bloodthirsty slave of yours-"

Argus hissed and lashed out, yanking a handful of her hair. Alya ground her teeth, the cursed necklace burning her skin. "Careful with how you speak to me." He sniffed the locks in his fist. "I have a thing for dark-haired girls. I could have you and your mother, easily." His tongue flickered out like a snake, fingertip traced the necklace.

"Humans; wizard or Muggle forget themselves when they first-turn. I could turn you, too, and everyone you ever cared about will become _your_ victim. Would you like that?"

Alya tasted bile. The threat hung in the air, and her stomach felt as if it housed a bed of eels. He released her, a few torn strands of hair in his fingers. She leapt to her feet, putting as much distance between them.

Argus barked a laugh. "I'll see you in two days, Moore." 

_Fucking vile, piece of shit._ Black-red sliced through her vision. She could pretend and say the parts of her that were demon wanted to kill him. That was not true. Her witch heart wanted to smite him off the face of the Earth, like she did his wretched brother. It was naive of her to think she would be _afraid_ to kill again. She would mercilessly do it without a second thought, right then and there, if she could. 

* * *

**_TOM_ **

Tom sat in his office doing paperwork for the shop. In the subsequents weeks, he handled rejection the only way he knew how; throwing himself even harder into work and his plans. He's never been rejected before, by anyone or anything. But as with everything in life he was determined to do it impeccably, and with as much grace as possible.

His followers were busy recruiting in Eastern and Northern Europe, extending highly-selective invitations to the pureblood families: Aleksandrov, Karakoroff and Belkin. The inner circle remained small, however. In the early weeks without her, he watched his followers closely, seeding in snitches to inform him of the habits, vices, and gossip amongst the families. No one knew about Alya or they dared not speak of Tom's personal life. They could focus on the Wizengamot council meetings aimed at drafting new laws that would make it difficult for Muggle-borns to get ministry jobs. Such a delicate process needed the Dark Lord's attention.

He couldn't be Tom Riddle. Tom Riddle let a girl weaken and shatter him. She would be that something more, that would forever elude him. 

But as determined as he was to forget her; for the first time in his life, he wasn't good at something. 

Two nights in a row he had a vivid dreams of her. Tom put a lot of stock into dreams and divination, and they were not dreams he could toss away as meaningless. 

The first was sweet; they were in Hogwarts in their Slytherin robes. She was the embodiment of royalty in emerald green. He proudly showed her a book with a basilisk in it, and she distracted him with a kiss. She tasted like chocolates he'd stolen in the orphanage. Warmth bloomed within him and he felt as if she could see straight into his soul. A space made for her within it. And in that dream, was a childish wish that they had known one another since they were eleven on the Hogwarts Express. Frightened and excited together. Never alone. 

The second dream, was not quite as sweet. 

He tried not to remember it, but no amount of drink, work, or cursing his followers could ever impair it. He'd watched it unfold as if he were floating above his bed. She barged into his bedroom in the middle of the night. _"Alya?"_ His dream-self mumbled sleepily. _"Tom."_ With that one syllable she leapt on top of him, ripping off his clothes. Her tongue licked her full, pouty lips, and sucked his length hungrily, her hair curling and softly tickling him as he moaned garbled words. She rode him hard after, nails clawing at his chest, until he thought his heart might explode. _"You're mine,"_ he growled, hand around her throat. 

He woke up hard and panting, her name on his lips. The memory of the dream-the heat and sweat of it-chased him into wakefulness. He felt around his sheets to ensure he hadn't come in his sleep at the most vivid erotic dream of her. But he was alone, nothing left to hold him but his pride. And he settled back into bed, heart thudding, breathing heavily and far too warm.

From that night onwards before sleep, he recited spells, runes, and History of Magic trivia to exorcise her from his mind. He did not want to wake up hard and tortured again. Haunted by the cold knowledge she would never be his, that they would never share a bed; that he only had those twenty minutes in the bookstore when they were alone to give him any idea of what it was like to truly be with her. 

He was at fault. Everything he built himself up to say faded. As he predicted, her gaze struck him too hard and his tongue twisted. A new type of fear and concern over her well-being reducing him to nothing, clashing with the overwhelming rage he had at whomever dared to strike her with _Crucio._

_I would kill for her. If she ordered it._ He would never do that for anyone else. But her heart was too kind for such requests. 

He plead for her, in his own way. For the life of him he could not say what he truly wanted too. He tried, wasn't that enough? But his hope failed him. Why had he put any faith into such flimsy things? Both of them were too stubborn for their own good. Her answer was an unsatisfactory pill he was forced to swallow, wholly incapable of satiating his hunger for her. 

He tried to respect her distance. He tried to respect that she was more than capable of looking after herself. He tried not to send spies after her. What a crazed dark lord he would look like if he did, obsessing over the safety of _one_ girl. Tom spoke with Guinevere a few times at the social club- he was there at the off chance he would catch a glimpse of Alya, but it was fruitless- prying into her condition. She made several trips to the Caledonian Forests. She was busy with work. Still single. Nothing of use.

Although, Alya remaining single, did please him greatly. 

His suspicions that her troubles had something to do with the Skarsson's didn't let. And Tom despised inaction. Last night he located Skarsson's remaining family in East London and set their house on fire. Thinking of Alya, he considered sicking a fire daemon on them. Perhaps she would hear of this and think of him, know it was him. But he didn't, at risk of burning half of London down.

Skarrson's relatives, two women, escaped the carnage on time. That was unfortunate. But he knew it would be enough of a danger to attract Skarsson to return to Britain where Tom could keep an eye on him. He instructed Malfoy to monitor international portkeys both legal and illegal. But the Skarsson's were skillful, smuggling over borders since Tom was a boy. They either never returned or evaded the authorities too well to be caught. 

Nonetheless, it was a night he would never forget. Several intense _Incendio's_ were enough, bolting through the midnight sky, dragons of pure flame. Tom, their eternal master. The fire he made was so hot it was blue. He could cleanse and rebirth the entire world with it. The power it gave him to wreak total destruction was intoxicating. He'd always known that God had spat him out onto this Earth for greatness.

He wished he could emerge from the shadows and claim this display of power as his, for he had not felt that invincible since the duel. The only thing that would have made the night absolutely sublime was if Alya was beside him to see it. _I did this for you._ He would have pressed her against a wall, the azure light of the inferno prancing across their bodies as he took her to ecstasy with his mouth. 

But she was gone, and he'd spent the entire day in the shop doing inventory like a brow-beaten book-keeper. He tried to find peace in letting her go. Reminding himself of his mother's death and disease of love. Hoping the ache in him would subside. _Hope- that ineffectual word again._

Tom sat there, unmaking himself over and over again with memories of her, so little of them he had. 

He sighed and rolled the parchment. Tom needed a newer goal to focus on. Another horcrux. He still had several more to create. But what if this howling restlessness within him worsened, when he made another? Like his body was punishing him for such ruination. Would such endless pain alter him?

_Nonsense._ _I can bear it, I have for the last eight years, and I will for the rest of time._ He was powerful, not meek like his mother. 

He readied to leave for a Knights meeting. As he put on his outer robes, he could smell her. Even after whatever ordeal she had been through in the Caledonian forests- her perfume remained, settling into her musk like sugared spice. 

Tom stopped. He really _could_ smell her. 

He shut the door loudly and entered the main shop.

His memories of her could never be compared to the enchanting reality of her face. His resolve sputtered like a flame in the wind. There she was, blindsiding him for the hundredth time. The store had a few customers who looked to him, but he only saw her. Since he met her, she was the first person he looked for in any room. She was with Mr. Burke at the cashier desk, whom laughed at one of her japes. A real one, not those oily laughs he put on to appease customers.

A few tendrils of hair fell in her silver eyes, her plum-coloured silk dress hugged the lushness of her waist. It reminded him of the exquisite feel of her heat through silk when she came apart for him in that bookstore. It made his muscles tighten with desire. The bounding, musical lilt of her voice, was more magical than any artefact in the store. 

He was barely able to resist her these past few weeks. All at once; his thinly made walls were demolished and his soul was screaming. For the life of him, he could not stop staring.

This thing between them that they tried to dim, sparked with new life. A reckless, desperate thought came to mind. Of yanking her to him like he did in Edinburgh and locking her in his office. His breath burning her skin with whispers of what he wanted to do to her. Kiss her senseless and stripped her until she was bare before him, so he could worship her absolute perfection and then take her on his desk. It seemed like the most brilliant idea he had in years. The pull of their bodies, like invisible cords joining them, could speak louder than words ever could for two prideful Slytherins.

But while his heart, body, and soul was greedy for this tiny morsel of her presence, it was blatantly obvious that she avoided his gaze. Her sudden appearance reminded Tom of the reason for her absence. Even a month later, the bitterness of her rejection left a acerbic taste in his mouth. He was aware of every minuscule movements of hers, they were catalogued in his mind; every time she breathed, blinked even slightly slower than usual, or turned a cheek.

The culmination of awareness, longing and desire was a sinking feeling he did not enjoy, that he was constantly fearful of. These feelings led to his mother's demise.

Death. He had conquered death. But he ever imagined in his twenty-four years attempting to conquer this. 

Anger ignited within him. How dare she waltz here after he dutifully kept his distance? He did _everything_ right! He did what she _wanted!_ He'd done so much for her without her even knowing it! Why was she doing this to him? Was she mocking him? Did she not care that this was his place of employment? He wished he'd killed her before there was any chance for her to have meaning in his life!

_Two can play at this game._ Tom stalked out of the shop, flexing his hands that closed into fists. He had more important matters to attend to than Alya fucking Moore-

He made it ten paces when the shop bell dinged. "Tom!"

This must be a fever dream. It had to be. But as he turned, she was a few feet from him. Real and solid, walking fast to catch up to him. Oh no. His pulse pounded, heart leaping to his throat, his head was hot. He felt rather winded even though he hadn't exerted himself. She looked wholly endearing with the books bundled in her arms, as if she were finding him to beguile and captivate him all over again with something delightful she'd uncovered in the worn pages. The alley was gloomy, just as his very existence was stark and bereft of her radiance, but she could make any place she was in look beautiful.

She stopped in front of him. Maybe hope was not such a flimsy concept after all. It was a feat to keep his voice indifferent;

"Alya. I didn’t know we were talking." 

_Tom. Alya. Tom. Alya._ Two beats of a song. Melody-counter melody. What was wrong with him? She called his name _once_ after a month and it turned him into a swooning poet! But he could not help it if he was fanciful. He was starved of her attention. And finally, _finally,_ it returned to him where-in his not-so-humble opinion-it belonged. He felt a that rush of excitement through him when he got gift. In that drugging moment he could only think: _She wants me. She wants to be mine. She's going to take it all back. She's mine. Mine._

"We are now." Her smile was pale as if something within her was strained. But Tom wasn't being too picky with what he got. "I want to hire you."

Tom's brain had a stroke. "What?" 

"I said I want to hire-"

"I heard you." He cut her off coldly. His hopes plummeting. She should have slapped him, it would have hurt less. He might as well have offered his heart for her to stomp on. "I am not for hire." 

"I can pay you."

"I don’t want your money." His teeth grated at the insult. "I already have a job that you are currently deterring me from." It was astounding how she managed to be conversational despite everything. Did she think of him as a dog, throwing a bone for him to chase after? Did she think of them as 'friends?!' For that was the last thing they could ever be. 

"You said you wanted to help me." 

The impertinence. But he did say that, didn't he? He peered at her necklace, it was unnaturally shinier, and there was thin rash marks beneath it. Pleading Tom Riddle wanted to help her. Now, he was hurt, angry, and insulted. He was sick of this, sick of her, sick of this burning desire for her. He cursed the fact that she was his only salvation. His wounded pride could not take it anymore.

"That was before, and I haven't seen you in a month. Things change." 

"I know we did not part from one another in the best circumstances." 

Tom was speechless listening to her. He had the insane urge to laugh. How could she reduce their last conversation to _this?_ Like a mere disagreement over Quidditch teams.

"But we work in similar trades and I hoped you would understand. This contract I have now, I might need the extra hand. I've been doing this alone for a while, and I've realised it's not easy. The client is-he's a tricky one and-I thought you-" 

"I honestly don't care about whatever contracts you're having difficulty with." It cruelly ripped from him, too late to retract. He wanted to hurt her, lash out at her, anything to get her to feel an ounce of the torment she'd put him through. "That is entirely _your_ problem not mine. I am tired of this. You were nothing to me once before, and you are nothing to me now. So I would suggest you stop wasting my fucking time."

He regretted it the moment it left his mouth.

Her face went still and expressionless. The silence dragging on painfully. He didn't breathe, or blink. He's never been that heartless with her before. He braced himself for her cold stare.

It didn't come. 

"All right," she grimaced, her mouth set in a firm angry line. "I guess I thought-well, clearly I was wrong. I've been wrong before, I can admit that." She drew from him. "Sorry for wasting your time. I won't bother you anymore." 

Tom swallowed against the acidic taste of guilt in his mouth. Looking into her eyes-the ones he read so well-his insides shredded to pieces to see them awash in pain. 

He forced his feet to remain planted as she left, when every atom of his being wanted to defy gravity and follow her through space and time. He wanted to run and beg for her forgiveness, sweep her into his arms and hold her tight. But Tom was incapable of it, he did not beg or bow to anyone. Thus he prowled in a circle like a restless caged animal. She should have fought him, shoved him, even coldness he could handle. Not this. A dull ache in his chest became more viciously unrelenting. He desperately wanted to see her for the last month and when he did it'd gone terribly. Not terribly-he'd decimated it beyond repair.

His pulsed roared in his ears. Tom snarled, fisting his hair, he needed to hit something, burn something. She looked well. But there was something off about her too, a remoteness to her voice, a diminished sheen to her gaze. The sort of thing that only came with hardship, that had nothing to do with him. He'd gone and made it worse. It pained him to see her in pain. Tom sat down on an alley stoop, carefully contemplating his next step, how far he could allow himself to go to fix this. 

* * *

**A/N: so I looked into vampires in the HP universe. They came up with two things: vampires may or may not be immortal but hate sunlight, and they also hate garlic. MMhm I wasn't a fan of that. So we're just going to go with the lore I make up for this story: definitely no garlic allergies here. As for the sunlight, they are known as Living Dead night-dwelling creatures, so sunlight kills them.**

**'The Society for the Tolerance of Vampires' is canon, however.**


	18. The Quest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A broken-hearted Alya goes on her curse-breaking hunt

**_ALYA_ **

Alya didn't shed a tear when her grandmother died. But the stress of last month compounded by Tom's hatred of her tipped her over the edge. She landed on her knees in a field of bluebells, sobbing so hard as if she was exorcising him from her soul. She fisted the grass, shredding it, pounding on the dirt. Her sadness a living thing trying to expel itself from her.

Her sobs quietened when her throat ached. She opened her eyes and gasped. In a circumference where she knelt, the purple blooms had wilted, petals shrivelled and stems drooping sorrowfully. A reflection of her insides. Ozzy found her, darting to her, flattening flowers in her wake. The cat gave her a curious sniff, whiskers brushing her knee and sat down next to her, a mass of unruly grey fur.

Alya scooped her to fit by her side and rolled onto her back in the bed of dead flowers, staring upwards at the canopies. A fragrant wind threaded her loose strands like Tom's fingers.

He wanted to hurt her, like she hurt him, and he succeeded, brilliantly. Tom was the resentful sort, and he resented her for rejecting him. The rosy hue she saw around him faded by the vile, cold, hatred he spewed. _Cruel boys grow into cruel men._ He must see in her, everything repulsive that she had learnt about herself in the last month. It was foolish of her to hold any affection towards him when he had none left for her. She kept her mouth stubbornly shut for weeks, trying to preserve something that was wilting away. 

She choked on a few tears as she slowly strolled home, Ozzy on her heels. Spring in Suffolk bloomed around her. The countryside bursting in bright greens and buttery yellows. A wren swooped over the bubbling creek, and hummingbirds joust with their wings. Leaves fell into the water, carried by the current downstream. She wished she were a leaf, that she could be taken far, far away, leaving her pain behind. She wished she were a child again, the water coming up to her knees, hunting for duck-egg coloured pebbles instead of powerful spellbooks. 

_No._ She wiped at her tears. She could not cry for him. She could not be be moved by the whims of men and their discontent. She peered down at her cat. "If I die tomorrow, who's going to look after you?" Ozzy nudged her ankle purring. "Thank you for your faith in me, Ozzy. I'll try not to die."

She had to treat this day as any other day before a curse-breaking hunt. With the razor sharp focus of a predator, moments from the kill. Her shoulders were straight and tall in her five-four frame. She couldn’t sit and mope. Hell, she's never be able to sit still if her life depended upon it. Walking quickly like she was in a race, she reminded herself that she had things to prepare, and could not allow herself a moment of weakness. She was a Moore and a descendant of Merlin and Morgana Le Fey. She may not believe in a higher power, but she had to try and believe in herself. 

. . . 

In many ways this was a suicide mission. This was meant to be a two-person job, but she didn't know whom she could trust in the community that wouldn't be loyal to Argus, and she could not approach Gringotts either. If she found the spellbook and hoarded it for herself, then Argus would definitely turn her mother. If she gave it to him, he might do it anyway, or force her into servitude. The necklace remained around her throat and the easiest way to avoid death was to cast a repelling shield charm around her. Strong enough that Argus could not poke through and take control of it. She would have precious moments to duel and disarm him, as the necklace would find a way to respond to the bidding of it's owner.

She penned letters to Willem and Guinevere to be sent out if she failed to return by a given date. She told them almost everything that needed to be shared except Magnus and her mother's possible vampirism if things went awry. Alya stubbornly hoped that she would be able to tell them the full story one day in person if she wanted to. A letter was impersonal. It was difficult to articulate how she felt in ink and parchment. They were both so dear to her. Since her return her cousin had surprisingly grown on her, and she knew they would have become closer if they had more time. There was so many adventures, so many parts of the world she had yet to see. Wizardkind could live until two-hundred years, sometimes more. She was only at the beginning of her journey.

Today, could be her end. 

In the hush-light before dawn, she trudged along the forest line. Alya studied the geometry of the green, the symmetry of the trees, searching for a break in their perfect imperfection. They were unyielding, like bars of a cage. Keeping out intruders. Her job was made harder by the presence of the asteroid. It will shoot across the Earth's sky, just shy of the stratosphere. She waved her wand, commanding the scouting charms to seek a tear in the wards. A small one would suffice. She just needed somewhere to start.

Half an hour later, the baubles of the charm zoomed back to her with insistent energy. She sped after them. _Yes,_ she thought excitedly. The thrill of the hunt never got old. Letting the adrenaline sharpen her mind was the only thing keeping her emotions at bay. Alya shoved her wand into the tear that hovered in thin air, saw the tree borders distort. She latched on harder and sliced down the seam until a window parted the guarding trees. She whispered a prayer to whatever Gods were listening, and stepped through. 

She arrived on the grey pebbled shores of a sound. The sky was a bruised purple, the bright stars winking down at her in greeting. She's never seen so many crowded together. Alya checked her map. The blinking dot that represented her showed she was still within Scotland. On her side of the window it was dawn, but it was impossibly night here. A breeze skittered across her skin. The inky water lapped serenely on the shores. Little forested islands dotted in the lake's expanse as far as the eye could see, reminding her of the Black Lake at Hogwarts, rumoured to be home to mermaids. What water creatures dwelled here?

Cliffs enclosed the sound, like the halves of a broken crown. On the eastern side, the mouth of a cave was set within it's center. Instinct told her to get there. She double checked to ensure the window she came through was open before she left. She didn't want to be stuck in this place forever.

She apparated to the outcrop of the cliff. The cave was built into the slate-grey rock. The stone guarding the entrance was jagged and uneven. What little light there was, was swallowed by the abyss. She waited for beasts or protection charms to throw her off, for the waves in the lake to become brackish, protesting her invasion. Any sign. But none came. It was meant to be more difficult than this, but she was gliding past undisturbed, as if this place welcomed her. After checking that she was alone, she cast _l_ _umos maxima_ and ventured in.

She sent scouting charms ahead to look for powerful magical signatures. As a test she tried to apparate out to the lake, but hit a magical blockade, her side thudding against the stony wall. The impact reverberated along the cave, startled bats swarmed overhead. Wincing at the bruises that would surely form on her back, it told her that the journey in and out had to be made on foot. Whatever waited for her, there was no easy escape from it.

It was then that she started to feel a steady pulse around her that was not her own. As if the cave were an omnipresent darkness, roused by her. A fleeting notion that she were in the throat of a Titan, and she was walking towards it's stomach. She swallowed her uneasiness and continued.

The cavern wormed its way half a mile into the mountain. It's general shape was ovoid, the walls below the ridge smoothly curved to the floor, the walls above arched another hundred feet up to giant stalactites and the bat roosts. The air was dry and chilly. Underfoot the loose stones shifted, twisting her ankle one way and then the other, and the noise of those disturbed rocks echoed off the dense stone walls. Walking too fast, she lost her footing and tumbled to the floor. A biting pain blossomed in her palm, a bleeding gash there. Cursing, she wrapped it in gauze. 

_"Alya."_

She froze, a chill down her spine. The darkness calling her. Her throat choking as fear took her. She missed the warmth. She should turn back and flee to the other side of the world. Hide.

_"Don't. Don't run."_ The darkness whispered. She swallowed convulsively. The whispers continued unintelligibly, ravaging her mind. Every now and then she caught shreds of her name as it beckoned her deeper into the void. She thought of Tom.

No. Riddle wasn't there. It was the cave playing tricks to frighten her. She clutched her wand tighter and forced her legs to move. She'd mad it this far, she could not turn back.

As she explored further she came across stagnant pools of frigid water. Water ran down fissures in the cave walls, but on a closer look, they actually run upwards curving and snaking their way to a smaller opening she squeezed through. The cavern it opened to was the largest she'd been in. Her lumos did not hit the ceiling no matter how far it trailed. Pillars, broken and whole scattered throughout the cavern, an ancient dwelling long-forgotten.

The ground sloped downwards in a smooth spiral, at the centre of the cavern was a black stone dias. Grey-stone hands sat atop a pedestal, opened skyward as if in everlasting prayer. In their palms was a book with pages of yellowed parchment, bound in emerald green leathers. Alya paused and waited again for any danger. There was none. Her bleeding palm stung, the only injury she had thus far. The pulsing beneath her feet was faster. What if this were an illusion? What if she wasn't the chosen one and she touched it and burned to ashes? All of this trouble for one book decaying in a dank cave.

But it had the answers, it had power she needed. 

She felt far away from herself. Distant to everything except this. This book. A narrow staircase was carved into the ground, she descended it. Ancient runes were etched around the dias, languages lost to their world. Alya ventured closer, a hawk was imprinted on the leather. She pushed her fear aside and closed her hands around the tome. 

Nothing happened. She was intact. She didn't burn to death.

Then, her blood hissed on the leather, a searing pain in her hand. Alya leapt from it, crying out, stumbling to the staircase. Something in her blood had upset it. They were wrong. This was not meant for her.

The first sputter of green flames spat forth from the book cover. Disappearing, reappearing. It curled higher, grew and grew. She's studied these powerful protection spells before. Cold realisation struck. It was Wildfire, the deadlier cousin of fiendfyre. Uncontrollable, lethal. There was dark magic no one has used it in millennia because of it's connection to the demons and the Devil. For it burnt with the essence of damned souls.

The whispers that had gone quiet for a moment returned. _"There is a path of light and a path of darkness laid out for you, Alya. Prove yourself worthy of it."_

The wildfire shot upwards, bathing the cavern in green and white. Growing and growing, ten feet, then twenty. It took the form of a chimera, roared, morphed into a dragon, ever-changing and challenging her. Whether the book was hers via birthright or not, it would not be hers unless she fought for it. 

* * *

_**TOM** _

Waves crashed against the shore. The frantic whispers of water growing louder and more violent when he climbed through the slice in reality. Arcane magic was rife in these woods. But he feared none of it, he delighted in it. Angry clouds rolled in obscuring the glittering sky, thunder rumbled in dissent, and lightning cracked electric whips above him. None of this phased Tom. Whatever wanted to keep him out, was going to have try harder than that to deter him.

He must have missed Alya by twenty minutes. The pebbled shoreline disturbed from where she crossed it. Tom had contacts within the public owlery that informed him she had written timed letters to be sent to her cousin and Willem at the end of the week. He was a little sore that she had not thought to write to him. But he probably deserved to be overlooked. The letters were a farewell, should she die on this dangerous quest for a long-lost spellbook. Merlin knows how she landed herself into this mess. She would have to forgive him for the invasion of her privacy. She would not seek him and stake her pride asking for his help if she didn't need it. He was doing this for her, correcting his mistake.

Tom wandered through the cave mouth, watched his shadow dissolve into the surrounding darkness. As he hurried through it's eerie blackness, he could sense a fey energy warping it's way through to him. Disturbed by his presence. Those whispers from outside seemed to follow him into this place where there was no wind. 

_"Half-blood. Half-man. Half-creature. Half-life."_

He stilled, the light from his wand going brighter. He whirled around to find the source of the voices with an imperious scowl. A blinding light burst in front of him. He watched through the slither between his fingers as the light took shape. A white and luminous corporeal form of a woman floated above him. She was ten feet tall, sometimes five, radiating softly. This was no poltergeist or Being he had ever read or come across. She appeared both ancient and young, compassionate and austere.

Tom lowered his hand, for a moment, afraid, until he reminded himself he was immortal. He never felt more glad to have made his horcruxes than he was then. He faced it awed, curious. Gripped with the desire to dissect this power and seize it for himself. 

"What are you?"

_"I guard this Lake from intruders. You are an intruder."_ The voice had layers to it, jagged and smooth, deep yet shrill.

"But you let Alya pass?" 

_"Because I know her,"_ it said warmly, like a calm summer sea. _"As I knew her ancestor."_

That was why she took this contract? Begging no offense, but the Moore's were winged horse-breeders and drunkards. They didn't have the power to create pocket dimensions and fabled spellbooks. Evidently there was more to Alya he had yet to learn. 

"I am here to help her."

_"I know you, too._ _I felt your corruption in her soul."_

Tom narrowed his eyes murderously. "Then you know that I am powerful. And that she needs me."

_"You?"_ It derided, like the crash of stormy waves. _"She will never be yours. You are undeserving of her. You who is a man of torn parts, you who will never be as whole as her. You are unnatural. A sin. Defilement of God's creation. Tampering with the divine gift of a soul."_

How did it know? There was no one else alive who knew of his horcruxes. Crimson drowned his vision. It did not matter. It changed nothing. He didn't have to listen to any of these lies. The Muggle churches tried to get him to believe in something more. _He_ was more. Alya was more. She came to him because she needed him. And who better to be there on her side in this quest, than him? The Heir, the Dark Lord. There was no one like him. There will never be anyone like him.

"I do not fear such things. I am beyond them." 

_"You would._ _If you knew what happens to unmade men like you when you die."_

Tom growled. "I will _never_ die." 

_"There is only oblivion for you, Tom Riddle."_

What did this creature know of Death? His death? Tom raised his wand and bared his teeth. He could not allow these falsehoods to inspire fear within him. "I am immortal. Your God cannot touch me. Now get out of my way."

He summoned the shadows and violence. Black tentacles lurched for the lake's guardian, tangling it's in light, devouring it. 

* * *

_**ALYA** _

Alya narrowly avoided a great green tail. It crushed through the pillars like dominoes. The wildfire had settled into a great dragon, soaring a hundred feet into the air, charging and lashing at her. The top half of a pillar loomed over her. She attempted to apparate but slammed into the cave wall. She was not crushed by the debris but the wind was knocked out of her. She forgot. There was no escape.

She slid to the ground, pitifully coughing out soot and dirt. Fear curled in her gut. This would be a fight to the death. The book was unburnt beneath the protection of the wildfire. Every time it was within arm's reach she was forced rearwards to avoid death from the flames. If any part of her skin caught the flames, it would spread and consume her. 

Alya's shoulders were sore, her neck and back sticky with sweat. She'd tried to smother it, wand cleaving through the air, levying great heaps of dirt, but to no avail. It reacted, but would not extinguish. She tried _protega diabolica_ but the wildfire parted through the blue fire like slicing cake. She even tried _aguamenti suprema,_ out of desperation but the water evaporated the second it touched the cursed fire. She dodged from a geyser of flame, her cloak ends catching fire. 

She skidded on the ground, lowering herself behind a boulder. Alya hastily removed her cloak before the fire could spread any further and tossed over her shoulder. The dragon engorged on it greedily. She rose a stronger shield to block it, while she regrouped. 

_How am I to prove myself?_ She was nowhere near as skilled and powerful as Merlin. It could not be smothered, it could be extinguished, it could burn rock and metal. Wildfire could be extinguished at the sacrifice of a human soul. And since there were no other humans around but her, she was stuck with it. Her only option was to control it. Sharp panic spiked in her blood.If only she'd gotten anywhere with fire daemons she might have an idea about how to do it.

She didn't need to destroy it. Perhaps there was a way to outsmart the cursed fire. Her position within the cavern wasn't ideal. She was at the opposite end, nowhere near the exit. She needed to shove the fire far enough to grab the spellbook and make a run for it. 

Easier said than done. It would be a miracle if she made it that far. 

Something stronger might do the trick to push it. Alya wiped the sweat from her brow and took a deep breathe. Gathering her courage, she peered over the boulder, then hopped over it. The wildfire dragon roared, layered and feral, the hairs on her body stood on end. It could crack through magical shields. She maintained hers as much as she could, but it won't last for long, given what she was about to expend her magic on. 

She lifted her wand in a lasso motion and reversed the charge on the air particles. White lightning zig-zagged to her wand-tip, tugging on her wrist like a cord. It flowed in and out of her. She conducted them through her belly directed a thunderous bolt at the dragon. 

The dragon breathed a torrent of fire to battle hers. Alya's arm trembled under the impact of the forces colliding. It was working. She cried out at the painstaking effort, all she had was the strength of her will against a tsunami wave of destruction. Her shield cracked like eggshells. It's flames advanced on hers even more, edging closer and closer, it’s heat scorching her skin.

Something slammed into her, knocking her to the ground.

That arm. That hair. _“Riddle?"_ She gasped. "What the-”

'-hell am I doing here?" Tom helped a dumbstruck Alya to crouching. He pushed a strand of hair from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. "I'm here for you."

She could only stare at him, her mouth hanging open. Surely he was a figment of her imagination. He reinforced the shield, a shimmery wall blocking them from the wildfire. It would hold but the faint cracks were already appearing as the creature sent flames so hot she felt as if she were cooking in an oven. He took her very real hands in his. The compressive sensation of apparation absconding them. 

"Wait-we-" Both of them body slammed into the cave wall. “-Can’t apparate," she wheezed, falling into a heap on the ground. She was sore everywhere. Three times she's done that. Alya angled her head and spat out a lob of blood where she'd bitten her tongue. Tom rolled onto his side next to her, wincing.

"Then we have to get past it." The green light looked sickening against his alabaster skin.

"That's the idea." They helped each other up. "But I need that spellbook it's guarding." _For me. For my mother._

Tom grabbed her arm, pulling her to go with him with a look that suggested he would carry her if he had to. "Forget it. No contract is worth your life." 

"This one is," she firmly planted her feet.

"Alya. Please." It was a lot for him to ask. Tom Riddle was not the sort that pleaded, but now his features were strained with it. 

"I'm not leaving," she said with punctuated stubbornness. "You said you didn't want to help me." _That I was nothing. That you didn't care._

Tom grimaced, guilt-stricken. "I know what I said. I'm sorry." 

This was not the time for this. It was a poor decision of hers to approach him at all. "Do you see what I’m up against? It’s too dangerous.

"It doesn't matter. I’m here, now. And I am not leaving either." He gripped her harder, steely determination belying that unguarded tenderness. 

She wanted to kiss him. Right there in a dark cave of smoke and ruin, a dragon of wildfire moments from burning them alive. No one has ever done anything like this for her before. Understanding that she wouldn't leave, Tom relented. “So, what do you need?”

She swallowed convulsively against the tide of overwhelming emotions. "I can't control it. Can you?"

"I've never come across it before," he looked ashamed to admit it. "But I will try." 

She didn't care if he could control a hundred wildfires or light a candle. He was there for her. It was all she needed. "I need you to push it back enough for me to grab the spellbook. You cannot touch it, do you understand? It has to be me."

Tom's shield crackled like a snow globe. His fire was a fifty-foot long blue whip and it kept the beast at at heel momentarily. She hesitated, watching him, if any of his clothing caught the green flames, or if debris or pillars fell on him-- she could not bear to see him get hurt because of her-

"I've got it. Go!" He yelled. 

She tore her attention from him and flattened herself on the ground, crawling and dodging flames until she reached the black dias. She tried to pry the book from the pedastal but it would not budge, as if in stubborn protest to her trickery. She screamed, and tears sprung in her eyes as her palms burned like hundreds of razors slicing her. _Come on why won't you move?_ She released it, panting, murmuring a hasty healing charm on her hands. 

_"It cannot be yours until you have shown you are worthy,"_ the whispers told her, now so close it was as if they were in her head. _"It must be you. Not him."_

_'But I can't control it,'_ she thought, begging for them to understand her predicament. _'I am not strong enough. He is.'_

_"Leave him."_

The black malevolence in their response was jarring, as if this omnipresent darkness had taken personal offense to Tom. _'What? I -who are you?'_

_"The guardian of this lake. I know you, Etifedd Myrddin Emrys._ _And I know the boy who came thinking he could save you. He is snarled in your every thought, he is not what you-"_

She's dealt with ghosts of her guilt and bitter spirits for far too long. She was done. _'Then_ you _know he is important to me.'_

_"Leave him,"_ the whisper shrieked at her bold defiance. _"The wildfire comes from hell, and it will cease when it has a soul."_ It told her, voice like cracking bones. _"I will give you the incantation to recite. Feed him to the flames and take the spellbook."_

_'You wanted me to prove myself. Now you want me to sacrifice someone? Make up your mind. You want me to have this book, don't you? Let me take it and let both of us leave safely.'_ She glanced back. Tom battled the wildfire, his fire and shields clashing in the air, heroically diving to the ground and rolling back onto his feet. His wand parried in a downward slash, the space between his brows creased with the concentrative effort. 

_"Circumstances change._ _Your soul is good. So unlike your ancestors. But there is a path of light and a path of darkness for you. You must leave him-'"_

_'I don't care what you want,'_ Alya hissed in her thoughts. ' _I_ _am not leaving him.'_ In her heart Tom was worth a hundred of those ancient, powerful spellbooks. She turned and left the book, sprinting back to him, running through her mistakes in her fire daemon practices. _Willpower,_ Tom had said in the Moore library months ago. _Willpower is easy to summon if you want something bad enough._

"Tom!" 

"Alya-" 

She shoved him aside and stepped into the path of fire. The first spear of wildfire missed her by a fraction. She lowered her shield. When the first tunnel of green flames met her wand, her mind fractured into a blitz of monochrome. Agony enveloping her skin like scalding hot oil. Alya bit down on her lip until she drew blood and powered through. _Heel to me. You_ will _heel to me._

Alya channelled all her fury, her vengeance, her pain into her wand. The wildfire sputtered and wavered, bellowing roars becoming weakened snarls. The walls that were washed in green light becoming dimmer and dimmer. Alya knew it was over when her wand- her precious alder wood and unicorn hair wand-that she purchased a lifetime ago, splintered to wood chips.

Her wand-hand was mournfully empty. The ground rushed up to meet her. Before she could fall, arms caught her around her waist and crowded her to a warm chest.

"Alya, can you hear me?"

"Tom," she said with a tremulous breath. "Help me-help me to the book." Her body rattled like a leaf, fragile like a newborn babe, face damp with tears. He led her to the pedestal. She carefully lifted the tome. It didn't burn her. It was hers. She hoped that the pain she was in, would be worth it. 

. . . 

Light, day, sun, even the moon held no sway or meaning in a place where time stands still until they exit. Rebirth was her first thought as the sun warmed her face. Tom closed the window and rested her against a tree trunk. "My-my arm," she gasped weakly through the ceaseless pain and hot tears. "Something's w-wrong with it..."

"Some of the dark magic of the wildfire infected you when your wand broke." 

She still could not believe he was there, yet it made complete and utter sense that he was. She knew that she sat on the leafy carpet of the forest, but she could not feel it. From her head to her toes, there was only a prickly numbness of magical exhaustion. She was slipping in and out of conciousncess. Totally aware of herself one moment, then feeling as if she were a spectre watching from a distance the next.

With his wand Tom cut away her right dress sleeve that was in tatters. Alya nearly passed out seeing the blackened wounds twisting up her arm. She made a whiny sound of despair, openly sobbing. He brushed away her tears and whispered sweet words of comfort, telling her that she will be healed, all will be well, and they would go home together. She latched onto his words like they were the only thing keeping her alive. 

He considerately explained every step before he did it, even if her brain was lagging to follow; how he stopped the dark magic from spreading, what tinctures he required to heal the physical wounds. "I'm sorry... this won't be pleasant." The sharp, metallic scent of dittany filled her nostrils. As the first silvery drops struck, the sensation was like coarse salt in a wound. Fire and ice. She cried out as it ascended her arm in a lance of pain, greenish smoke billowed into the air from the wounds. 

"I don't want it anymore, Tom. Please...please." She made half-hearted protestations to make him stop. Tom entreated, begged and swore it was necessary. "Almost there, just a little bit more, I promise." He shushed her, gently petting her head, muttering sweet nothings to soothe her. She was grateful his promises stayed true and it was over. New skin stretching taut over the wounds. She whimpered while he bandaged and put her arm into a sling. It still ached, the skin was feverishly hot with black twisting vines of dark magic.

She wanted to be strong, for grandparents, for herself, her mother, for Tom, but she was bone-deep tired of trying so hard. The earth was tugging her down to it, her mind fuzzy, her eyes droopy.

"Alya. Alya, don't sleep." He cradled her head that lolled to the side. "Take a bite of this and swallow," he gently ordered. She chewed on the bitter dittany leaves. "Now, drink this." Cold glass pressed on her lips and he tipped it into her mouth. It tasted like licorice. A boost of energy zapped through her veins, cleared her sinuses, made her open her eyes wider, snapping her back to her surroundings.

"Solvo Navitas," he explained at her shocked expression. Tom showed the cobalt blue vial to her. "A rare energy supplement. It won't last long, two hours or less. It'll help with the healing. One shouldn't sleep so soon whilst dark magic lingers within them." 

The energy supplement blanketed over her pain like a cool ocean breeze. Her heart was racing at a hummingbird's pace. It would be temporary fix, however. It went left unsaid that they both knew Tom would need to extract the rest of the dark magic later. That was about as a pleasant as running a hand through a cheese grater.

In the clear blue sky, a red slash cut above them. The asteroid. “A bleeding sky,” Alya murmured. He tilted his head up too, a quiet moment between them as they stared in wonder, feeling like an insignificant speck to the unknown universe. She properly looked at Tom. Sweat on his brow, hair tousled, dirt and soot over his white shirt and cheeks. He knelt on the ground by her. Someone like him was rare, like that celestial body was to her. He was the brightest star in the firmament. And he was here. With her. 

He cleared his throat, presented something to her bundle in cloth with a look of condolences. "Your wand."

Something like grief tore in her chest. She never thought there would be a day where she would be without it. "I have a spare I won in a duel years ago," she swallowed, feigning indifference, although he must see through it. "It won’t be the same though. I’ll have to cast with my left for--for now." She hoped she still had her right arm after this was over. 

Tom fussed about checking her hands and the gashes there. Alya was enjoying it more than she should've. She glanced at the faint blue veins in her wrist, wondering how they weren't visibly pulsing while his elegant fingers brushed her skin and unwound the bloody gauze. Did he mind? Or was he cursing himself inwardly, vexed by her recklessness? He must care for her a little if he went after her. She never thought she could wish for something more, than for that very fact to be true.

Perhaps he was here out of the kindness of his soul, or guilt for his harsh words. She felt measures of it too, for asking him to accompany her. She should have never approached him, he would have been safe in London, away from her, from this. 

But then she would have died in the cave if it weren't for him carrying her out of there.

He was being so gentle and concerned. She felt giddy being able to watch him unfold for her and no one else. She wanted to see him like this everyday. She was not a maiden in need of saving, but God did it feeling like heaven to be tended too so warmly.

Her throat closed tight and her heart clenched. That heart that she had spent her whole life closing off, to protect. That rosy hue around him wasn't there, but it was replaced with something deeper, gripping, more aching, than surface admiration and desire. She felt as if she was treading precariously on the edge of a cliff, moments from falling, if she wasn't careful.

Want would become need. And she was terrified that she would need him, more than he would ever need her. 

"I... didn't know you could do that." His eyes were downcast, closing her palm wound with a healing spell. "Control wildfire. That sort of dark magic hasn't been used in generations. They call it the devil's breath." He was being unreadable again. 

"I didn't know either." In truth, she was proud of herself, but she was humbled knowing that what she did was necessary. "But there was a voice in my head. Or more like a ghost whispering in my ear. Following me in that cave." She licked her lips, her face warming at how insane she sounded and the gravity of what she was about to tell him.

"It-it told me to leave you and run. I couldn't do that."

Her voice became fainter and she held her breath. But he didn't say a word, only hummed in response. But why should he thank her? He came to her aid, she returned the favour and so on. Perhaps he regretted ever coming here. After all, why should he risk his life and _die_ for someone he almost always ended up in an argument with every time they spoke. 

"Did you hear it too? Or was it just me?"

"I didn't," he said. "Did those whispers say anything else?" 

She shook her head. Honestly she would not have cared about whatever it said about Tom. She would never have left him. The thought of his death, made her taste ashes and squeezed the air from her lungs. 

His hands pressed into her waist, where they fit perfectly. She could feel the heat of him seeping through her clothes. He hoisted her to her feet as if she weight nothing. He just as quickly released her, but the imprint of him remained. 

His tone brooked no protest. "All right, you have the spellbook. We should leave."

"I can't."

Tom gave her a stern, almost angered look that he highly considered carrying her if she continued to disobey him. "Alya-"

"No, listen." The day was not over until her mother was safe. Alya explained to him what was going on, excluding the parts about her demon blood and when she killed Magnus. It was horrible. She was outright lying to him, but she was not prepared to face his cruel judgement of her. For him to realise that she deserved to be in this debacle, to give him any possible reason to like her less. 

His lips parted. Eyes wide as if someone has doused him with ice water to wake him. "Your ancestor was Merlin? _The_ Merlin? And Morgana Le Fey?"

"It most definitely was not a love story," she said. "That's why only I can hold the spellbook. Anyone else who does will be set on fire." She wasn't certain if he was listening anymore. He was giving her that _look,_ eyes dilated and hungry.

He shook his head, seemingly getting a hold of himself for whatever reason. He pressed his lips together, his eyes unscrewing and screwing. For this instance, she was thankful he could be cold and pragmatic. She needed that. Nothing could topple a plan more easily than unbridled emotions. "So, Argus has your mother captive and he’s going to turn her into a vampire?" He said. "You cannot let him get the spellbook. And have you considered that no matter what you did he may turn her anyway?" He said tersely. 

Of course he was not a fan of the prospect of her being eaten alive by a Living Dead being that was once her dear mother. Neither was Alya, but he was missing the point. "Yes I have. But she's my mother, Tom. I can't leave her," she stood her ground indignantly. But then, maybe he didn't quite understand her attachment to her mother. He never knew his mother. Does one miss a parent they never knew?

"I can’t leave even if I tried," she pointed at the cursed necklace. "Not with this noose around my neck."

His eyes widened. "I knew it." 

"I don’t know how to break it. Believe me, I’ve tried, but at risk of cutting my head off and I quite like it in-between my shoulders."

"It needs Goblin steel. Here." He brandished a dagger with the Lestrange crow on in the hilt, decorated with gold leaf, onyx and emeralds. He removed it from the sheath, the metal sighing softly. The steel was dark grey, rippling with iridescent rainbow when it caught the light. 

"You just have that?"

"I noticed something was off with it when you came to see me and I came prepared. This the only thing that could destroy something like that."

"Is that a theory or a definite answer?" 

He came a foot from her. "I would not suggest this, if I wasn’t a hundred percent certain it would work." 

She gulped, feeling like a cannonball was lodged in her throat. "I don’t—I don’t know. I-it's too dangerous." 

"You won't be safe until that necklace is off." 

She stared at the dagger, her heart thrashing with fear. "I might never be safe even without it." 

"Look at me." Tom tilted her chip up, the brush of his fingers searing her skin, forcing her to meet his intense gaze. "When you are with me, you are safe."

She swallowed, transfixed. He could have held her like that, morning, noon and night and she would not have moved a single muscle. 

"Do you trust me?" 

_Completely._ She nodded. "From here," she showed him a spot to cut near her left carotid. He shifted to that side and raised the blade, fixing a lock of hair behind her ear to give him access. Without a count down he raised the blade-

The necklace snapped.

Her throat was in one piece.

Relief washed over her so suddenly it was almost painful. "Oh thank God.” She turned and without thinking, hugged him.

The exuberance and force of it had him stumbling a little. It was a jumble of arms; one arm over his shoulder the other in a sling stopping their chests from colliding. But his hands flattened in the middle of her back, gentle and considerate given her condition. They've never hugged before, how crazy that they've touched one another in other ways, when a mere hug was just as intimate. She loved the smell of him, clean and soapy, a bit of sweat. She could get awfully use to this if she indulged too long. 

She drew away, and he picked up the necklace. "All right. We have to give this to him, free my mother and the others, if they're still alive. Can you duplicate this necklace for me?"

His brows creased. "I can, but Alya. You shouldn’t outdo yourself, especially after what happened in the cave." 

"I can do it. I _need_ to do this." It would be quite a feat. The sort of heroic adventures and tales worthy of a bard song; brave, and possibly very stupid, very un-Slytherin like. But she didn't want to put herself in those boxes. She had Tom. And it defied logic, but she felt like she could accomplish anything with him, even though he was trying to deter her for very good safety-related reasons. 

"I know you can do it. But you don’t even have a wand that is compatible with you. We should go back to London first-"

"I need to see it through to the end. And I have to go. Now.” She told him firmly, stood tall and eyed him coolly. “So are you coming, or not?"

Tom searched her countenance. He shook his head. A tug of a poorly-repressed smile at the corner of his lips. He exhaled long, a tad exasperated and muttered something under his breath, 'God. This witch,' it seemed like.

"I think you already know my answer to that."

"Really?" She must sound so needy. 

The sunlight was in his eyes, a velvety brown. He smiled. "If you planned to steal the light from the sun, I would have been by your side.”

She grinned. "Such fanciful words." 

"Only for you, Moore." 

His eyes burned dark and hot into hers. He was going to be the end of her, she just knew it.

**_. . ._**

"What is Skarsson's skill level?" He asked as they trudged up a hill, tall grass whipping their knees. The sky was grey but the asteroid remained a red scar through the ether. She almost felt like it were guiding them, even though that was not possible. It was nothing compared to the solace she found in Tom's company. 

They'd agreed on a plan and conducted the necessary spells. She enjoyed watching Tom do such effortless magic. She had just finished describing and drawing a layout of the cave network beneath their feet. She met Argus there for most weeks for the last month. She'd made it a side-goal to have a map memorised. 

"He's good," she replied. 

"Powerful?" 

"Un-inhibited." She had to be twice as merciless. "Power resides where power resides. If people could focus on that instead of blood status perhaps there would have been less wizardfolk joining Grindelward. And all the time wasted bickering in the ministry over Muggle-born rights could end, so they could focus on capturing decrepit scum like Skarsson." Argus was vile... but he managed and created his horrid operations, under the nose of Auror Office. He was definitely taking advantage of the dwindled number of Auror recruits.

A contemplative look came over his face. "I'll deal with him." 

"Let me. He's expecting me, but he won't be expecting you," she said. "Look for my mother and the other prisoners and free them. Then take him from behind." 

Tom did not look too pleased to separate from her. He probably wasn't a fan of being told what to do either, but he followed her plans. The _solvos navitas_ was carrying her through but her arm was starting to ache more and more every five minutes, and her grip was numb on her spare wand. She had to be tactful and wise with her spells. 

. . . 

"Argus." They met in the cavern he used Crucio on her in. Tom was going to have to blast his way in through a back tunnel she showed him. She hoped his silencing charms worked or else Argus would know he was being tricked and that she had an accomplice. 

"You're finally here. In one piece." His eyes landed on her slinged arm with mirth. "Almost." 

She glared at him. She wore the fake necklace. He had not noticed it yet. Tom's duplication spell doing it's good work. "Where's my mother?" 

He arched a blonde brow. Beady eyes greedy. "Where's my spellbook." 

"Here." She produced the decoy from her bag laid it on a larger boulder halfway between them. The real one was still unopened. 

"And the curse on it?" 

"Broken. Like you wanted." She made a show of resting her palm over it, that she didn't burn. She lifted the cover. "Where's my mother?" She was noticeably absent from behind him like she usually was. 

"Here she is." 

Her mother's slumbering form floated from the shadows and rested against the boulder. Alya's throat was tight and she felt a prickle of panic. Her mother looked waif thin and grey. She hoped it wasn't too late to revive her to full-strength. 

She returned her focus to Argus. "Open it," she tilted her chin up. "It's yours." He approached tentatively to the spellbook and turned a page. He frowned at an inky blotch in the first page. Within blinks the blotch expanded and then lunged forth from the page like living tar, engulfing him. He cursed and shouted in his struggle. Alya hurried to her mother, whilst directing a leg-lock jinx to Argus. He collapsed on his rear, comically. 

She reached her mother and hurriedly checked her pulse, her face. "I'm here, I'll get you out of here." Then she noticed something very odd. Her mother's eyes were green where they should be brown. She reared from her, horror clenching her heart with a vice-grip.

_"Finite."_ Said Alya and her mothers face widened, cheeks fuller, hair shortening, limbs lengthening. Until the woman on the ground was not her mother. But a man. The Muggle without a tongue. Half his throat was ripped out, a mess of dried blood, soaked his entire front. At that very moment Argus managed to put a slicing charm to tear the tar away before he was suffocated. 

"Where is she?!" She yelled, rage igniting within her. Their wands poised for attack at the same time. "What have you done with her?" 

* * *

**_TOM_**

He jogged on silence footfalls along the cave tunnel. He kept his mind focused on his part of the plan. It was a good plan. Alya had the makings of a natural leader. She was more powerful than he could have ever imagined, and she did not even realised it, or her potential. _I could help her realise it._ The ideas, the endless possibilities of being with her was deliciously thrilling. 

Everything was a first with her. He has never been outdone before with magic, out-skilled. It made him feel...bitterly inadequate. Only for moment. Because she'd done it- destroyed her wand, imbued herself with dark magic -to _save him_. Technically, he did not need saving, he had horcruxes, but she didn't know that. Did she really care for him _that_ much? When he was so terrible to her a few days ago? None of his followers would ever do such a thing. But she wasn't devoted to him in that way.

She did what she did because she was a _good person._

She was perplexing. She vexed him to no end when they met. But she was special, like him. A flicker of anger came over him, knowing that she'd been overlooked, mistreated and misunderstood her whole life. _Like me_. But he'd misjudged her too. He would never be able to take back those years he wasted overlooking how remarkable she was. He would spend countless days trying to prove to her that he was worthy of her.

She was right. The purebloods despised her because _they_ were weak. Power was power. And oh, Alya was power. He was hypnotized in breathless awe by her, waves of her power radiating to his open, welcoming shoreline. He decided there was no one on the planet like her. With dark intentions and a pure heart. An intoxicating mix. How could anyone who could manipulate hellfire like that be so generous and selfless, too?

He did not think it was humanely possible for him to want her even more. But he did when she told him of her ancestry, the truth nearly floored him. 

_Merlin._

And him, Slytherin.

They could be the Heirs to the world. 

The thought made him want to burst with joy, that had grown so large in his heart. She gave him hope that his destiny could be fulfilled, and now she was essential to it. The universe had plucked them from the stars and placed them on this world to find one another. For a God needed a Goddess. 

To think, he could have lost her to dark magic if he did not go after her. All because of his ego and arrogance. He was bloody thankful the guardian of the lake had not whispered any incriminating lies about him in her head. It would have ruined _everything._ Alya looked at him like she would follow him to the ends of the Earth. But did _she_ realise that he was following her plan.

_Hi_ _m,_ the Dark Lord, a follower for a change! What was happening to him?

He was a simpering fool. And this fool would have believed her if she said the sky was orange.

"O'Creed?" He whispered as he came upon a cell. A haggard woman with auburn hair and rags leaned on the wall. For a moment he thought she was dead until she stirred. 

"Who are you?"

"A friend of Alya Moore." He bent the bars and undid the shackles with two swishes of his wand. When he saw her in the light she was actually much younger than he thought. "Where's the third prisoner?"

"Dead." She stood unsteadily, massaging her thin wrists. Any longer in this prison and she would've been bony enough to slip through the shackles. "Argus took him yesterday." Alya told him the woman he was saving was a Muggle-born. _The things I do for her._

"Go." Tom directed her down the tunnel. 

"What of me?" A black-bearded man in the adjacent cell shuffled to the bars. As he neared, his eyes widened in shock. 

_What a pleasant surprise._ "Dimitri Karkaroff." 

He eyed him suspiciously. "You know me?" 

"You're infamous." Extremely pleased with this outcome, Tom made short work of the Bulgarian prince's bonds. "A long line of Durmstrang Head masters come from your family. They must miss your absence terribly." 

"Where is that filthy half-blood who locked me in here?"

"Being dealt with."

When he stood he was a few inches taller than him, peering at him curiously. "And to whom do I owe my gratitude and freedom?" 

"I could tell you my name, but it is not an important one," said Tom with an enigmatic smile. "The wizard I serve, however-- you'll know his name soon enough." 

* * *

**_ALYA_ **

"Where is she?" Alya repeated, punctuating every word with hate. The force of her anger shaking her, blood churning hot through her veins. 

"You owe me the spellbook." He hissed. 

Inspiration came to her and she shrugged her bag off. _"Accio spellbook,"_ it vaulted out of her bag and onto the ground by her feet. She picked it up. Unscathed. "Take it." Alya flung it at him. As Argus reared he used his wand-hand to block him. His fingers merely glanced the spellbook, but it was enough. 

"AH." He howled in pain. The acrid scent of burning flesh filled the damp cave. When spellbook thudded onto the floor. They both stared at the damage it did. His hand was charred liked a corpse's, blackened skin lifting and peeling, meaty red flesh beneath. He clutched it with his good hand. Before Alya could advance on him, she heard another's footsteps. She turned to her left. 

"Mother?" 

No. It was not her mother. Not the mother she knew. Alya stood shell-shocked. Her mother's eyes were blood-shot, skin pale as snow. A feral rumble emitted from her throat. Argus had done it. Her mother was a vampire. 

"Not your mother anymore, you bitch," Argus laughed manically. "Get her." Before she could comprehend it her mother obeyed him and pounced at her with the speed of a wildcat. Alya's blocking spell missed, and then she was on her. The force of the fall sending shooting flares of pain across her body. They rolled on the ground, white fangs trying to bite at her neck. If she bit Alya once, she could either kill her or turn as well. She only had a single arm to fight her off with every last breath. She screamed and shrieked, kicking, trying to reason with her that she was her daughter. Vela smelt of dirt and dried blood, some of it in-between her fanged teeth. 

"Alya!"

Suddenly Vela was flung off of her, pitched into the cave wall and pinned to it. She howled in protest, trying to claw off. Tom sprinted in, his wand aimed with a homicidal look. 

"Don't!" Alya rushed to him, pushing his wand-arm.

"Are you hurt? Did she bite you?" Without warning he frantically tugged at her sleeves, her wrists, moving her hair, inspecting every inch of her. "She didn't," Alya assured him. Grateful herself. 

"Where is he?" He snarled, a thirst for vengeance rife within him. "Where's Skarsson?"

"Gone," said another Irish accent behind them. She turned to see Roisin staggering in, the bearded-wizard aiding her. 

"O'Creed." At least they'd been able to aid two other people tonight. The innocent Muggle man was long-dead. Her mother completely lost in a beastly blood-rage. Alya pulled away from Tom, raised her wand shakily and muttered a sleeping spell. When those blood-shot eyes were closed she could pretend that her mother was well and normal. Not what she had turned into. Newly turned vampires, if not controlled, were almost always executed by the Ministry.

Alya killed Magnus, but now she's killed her mother.

She failed. She utterly, utterly failed. This plan, this quest had been cursed from the beginning. No matter if she gave Argus the spellbook or not. Anger and despair crashed through her in shuddering waves. It was a Herculean effort to hold it in for a few spare moments to address O'Creed whom approached her. 

"I'm glad you're not dead." 

"Me too. I'm sorry about your mother." Roisin looked worse than she did the last time she saw her, but strong on her two feet nonetheless. "She'll be all right. You didn't leave her behind. Your uncle's Minister for Department of Magical Creatures." 

"I could ask him for help, but it could be beyond him. Besides, it won't be an easy world for people like her. And she has no more magic." If the venom had not killed her, it wiped out one's magical abilities. 

Tom gathered two fist-sized stones and turned them into portkeys. One for the bearded wizard to travel to Bulgaria, the other for Roisin to go to Galway. "Good luck, Moore," said O'Creed. "Perhaps I'll see you around." She stopped before she picked up her respective portkey. "Are you going after him?" 

Alya nodded, not a doubt in her heart. "Are you?" 

Roisin nodded. "In case I don't get him first. Kill him, will ye?" 

She gulped, and nodded, although she wasn't entirely sure what she would do if she came face to face with him again. Tom spoke quietly to the bearded wizard, a Karkaroff. She didn't know where she'd heard that name before. Alya stuffed the spellbook into her bag. The wretched thing. What good had it done her?

When she stood again, she nearly pitched to the ground, her head spinning with vertigo. Her hand shot out to balance herself on the wall. Tom calling her name was the only thing that grounded her again. 

"Alya." He clutched her elbow to steady her. "We have to take your mother to the Ministry."

"I know," she croaked, and winced. Before she could keep them in, she was a mess, blinking away tears. "I did this," she sobbed. "They're going to kill her. I- she-"

"I heard what O' Creed said," he told her, tenderly wiping tears from her cheekbones with his thumbs. "It's not over yet. She's not the first human to ever be turned into a vampire."

She wiped at her eyes. The magical exhaustion made her finger-tips numb. He cupped the back of her head and crowded her into the warm expanse of his chest. He wrapped his strong arms around her. Holding her so tightly to him, that the sting of her guilt lessened. The cotton of his shirt was cool and soothing on her cheek. She desperately wanted to find comfort in it, to time her breaths to the beat of his heart. But breathing itself was getting more difficult. The pain was returning to her in full swing, like razors digging into her flesh. She felt as if the floor was slanting. With every blink, her eyelids weighed like lead.

"It hurts-and I-I feel-" 

"The potion is wearing off," he held her arms to look into her eyes. She saw two blurry Tom's. "Hold on a little longer, don't sleep," he pleaded. "Alya-"

Black thorns encroached her vision. Her head tipped back and the world plunged into darkness. 

* * *

**A/N: phew, another lone one. I understand that it could be too much to read in one go. I'm still unsure if I want to spilt them, but these chapters play out like TV episodes in my head so I like to condense the action like this. Hope you guys enjoy the chapter anyway. It was a tricky one to write tbh. I truly can't believe the year is almost over. Hope everyone is safe. If there are any grammatical errors, please note I don't have a beta-reader.**

**Next chapter will be a very fluffy one ;)**


	19. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quite a long one folks. Fluff, so much fluff. And a bit more than that ;)

**_ALYA_ **

The green flames consumed her, burning down her throat like white-hot knives. She screamed in pure agony, flailing to and fro to escape it, but her limbs were being held down. Her dreams were black and red. Scarred with blood and death. Death to those she cared for. She wailed at their corpses strewn about her.

_Sssshhh._

A large green snake, twelve feet long and thick as a man's thigh, slithered passed her feet over the bodies. What did she have to fear of snakes? The misunderstood sigil of Slytherin House. They shed their skin every lunar cycle. Snakes were rebirth, fertility. She went to her knees. It's flesh was cold as she stroked it. It's head snapped to her with blood-red eyes and hissed long and slow. For some reason, she thought it was speaking to her... 

There was darkness again, but much longer. A deep sleep that was inky and still, the jagged edges of her pain fuzzy. Over time, Alya felt herself rising, as if from the bottom of a lake, higher and higher towards the sunlit surface.

Her eyes opened and squinted as they acclimated to the light. Her limbs felt heavy. She turned her head and saw Tom. His eyes were closed, he leaned back in an armchair, lazy, yet somehow a picture of perfect composure. His elbow was propped up, temple rested on the tip of his wand. His curls, thicker on one side, flopped over a brow. He looked tired.

Her arm was in a fresh sling that she does not remember him putting on. A blanket covered her waist down, beneath, she was in her chemise. She felt a hundred times better than she did God knows how long ago, albeit very groggy. Her mouth thick like she was chewing cotton wool. Alya gasped at the scorching agony in her shoulder when she tried to sit up, hot tears prickling her eyes. Within a blink Tom crossed the space between them and helped her sit.

“Careful. You’re not fully healed yet.” His voice was a bit hoarse from disuse. He waited while for her short breaths to subside, the potions dulling the pain.

“How long have I been asleep?” She slowly planted her feet on carpet, fluffy between her toes.

“It’s Sunday evening. So almost three days.”

“ _Three days?”_ She croaked, her throat scratchy. He handed her a glass of water to quench her thirst. So much could have happened in three days.

Alya peered around. On her left was a small brick fireplace, lit and cackling softly. Beyond the seating area was a wooden dining table. Beside it, bookshelves took up an obscene amount of wall-space, and floor space too. A kitchen led from the dining area, and a there was a darkened hallway behind Tom's leather armchair. The place was spartan in decor and not a speck of dust in sight.

“Where are we?”

“My flat.”

"Oh." She squeaked, a tad surprised. Of all the places she thought Tom would take her, his flat was not on her list. As a rather nosy person, she wanted to look around again with more prying eyes, but it would be rather impolite to do so.

“My mother—what happened?”

“She’s at St Mungo’s, acclimatising to her... condition with the aid of the Society of Tolerance for Vampires. A Mr. Trochar is aiding her in the transition." Judging from his discomfort, his opinion on her mother's vampirism was clear, but she appreciated that he was trying to understand the complexity of it. Most wizardfolk wouldn't. "Argus remains in the wind.”

"I need to see her." Her guilt tightened her throat anew. "There's so much I need to say to her, to ask her." Sharp panic tinged her voice, "I have to-I have to make a case to the Ministry, oh Merlin, a _Wizangemot_ panel I-" 

Tom shushed her. "Alya, it will be all right. I sent owls to my Ministry contacts and spoke to your uncle, your mother has been safe and watched for and will be until you are well enough to visit her and partake in the next steps of her transition, her trial, whatever they may be." 

Her heart sputtered. It was more than she would have ever asked of him. If anyone. Her eyes burned. “You-you did all that?" 

“It was not much effort on my part. I only hope what I did respects your wishes. You need to focus on healing for now," said Tom.

She took a deep breathe. Panic slowly subsiding. The tenor and weight of his voice, reassuring, he could tame wild beasts with it. She inspected her sling, the white bandages, wishing she had her arm whole and intact. She hated feeling like she was incapable of anything. Alya gave a long-shuddering exhale, trying to reason with her situation as a headache pounded at her temples contemplating what else needed to be done. The main goal was to prevent unnecessary execution of her mother, and oh God she had to report to Gringotts. She's been putting off their contracts for weeks, and _Argus,_ where was she to begin with finding that swine?

Tom was right, and Alya wasn't stupid, it would not be wise to exert herself any more than necessary. Tomorrow. She would address the real world tomorrow. 

"Is it—is it permanent?” She asked, her stomach tightening with disquiet at the idea of losing her arm.

“No. St Mungo’s did their best to assuage the spread, but this was magic they were ill equipped to deal with. So I brought you here, to extract it, and obtained the necessary resources to aid with the physical healing." He definitely used black-market and pureblood contacts for that. She spotted the array of ingredients sprawled on the dining table, the cauldron quietly bubbling.

"The fact that you woke up is a good sign. But I can’t guarantee that your shoulder will never be uncomfortable again. I can’t work miracles.”

The fact that she was still alive was because of Tom. Alya met his eyes, a swell of affection for him. Then, a violent shiver wracked through her, her teeth chattering.

“That’ll be the effects of the dark magic leaving your system." He came closer, taking the blanket that bunched at her waist. "The healers used a freezing spell to arrest the spread.”

Tom wrapped the blanket around her shoulders with such care, like a queen at her coronation. She became exceedingly aware that they were very alone in his flat. The blanket and fire was warm, but could not compare to how Tom made her feel. That clean, soapy scent of him was both very comforting and also rather arousing. Wholly inappropriate, given her condition--but there were worst places and people to wake up to. For the last three days she had been dependent on him. She was grateful. But hating any display of weakness, especially on herself- it was embarrassing to think of what he saw during her turbulent recovery.

She should offer to leave immediately and thank him for his trouble, they could merrily be on their way out of each others lives. But she did not have to be so hasty. For someone who touted about independence, it felt so good to be cared for. Alya thought of his words in the forest. _'When you are with me, you are safe.'_ She's pushed aside anything like this her entire life. When in truth, she craved it with a bone-deep ache; what she wouldn't give for just one person in her life that would never leave. 

After a long moment in her depressing ruminations she noticed a bundle on the coffee table. "Is that my wand?" He nodded and unwrapped the cloth. It was in three pieces, about as useful as a twig.

“Unicorn hair core." Tom ran a finger over the shimmery white strand, jutting out from the wood like a torn artery. 

Her body deflated. “It truly feels like I actually lost a limb." She believed she was the most special child in the entire world when it chose her at Ollivanders. Her. The illegitimate pureblood, with no parents, about to embark on the most exciting journey of her life. 

“It doesn’t have to be something sad," Tom said with a light, hopeful note. "Perhaps it is time for a change.”

"I suppose you have a point." She sighed louder, staring at her hands, her soul heavy. “What are you brewing?” She asked to distract herself and out of curiosity. 

“The rest of your healing potion. It will go much faster now that you’re awake to drink it, instead of using salves.”

A day of rest was inevitable. Her eyes gave a proper sweep of his flat. The place felt so much like him; from the overstuffed, yet highly organised bookshelves, the minimal colours, and cleanliness. Tom watched her closely. A little tense, even as he tried to hide it. 

“It’s small but it’s temporary," he interjected.

She turned to him and smiled. “It’s yours.” She held his knee. Both of them felt a startling jolt. She quickly removed her hand, her entire body awake. That pull between them cinching them tighter. Luckily, her sling was an excellent mood-killer. “I’ve.. never had anything that was completely mine before." It was a rather depressing thought to admit. No home, had ever been truly hers. Nor had she ever met anyone that ever felt like a home. 

Her stomach gurgled unhelpfully, loud as a whale. 

“After three days asleep you must be hungry." Tom surmised mildly, not as painfully awkward as she was acting. Her knees cracked from disuse as she followed him to the dining table. She sat near the head of the table, adjacent to where the cauldron was. A plate materialised in front of her. Tom swished his wand in small strokes. Roasted chicken thigh, potatoes and asparagus assembled in an orderly fashion on the plate. Her mouth watered at the smell; rosemary, thyme, lemon, and that something special; magic. Nothing was as good as magically cooked food, _especially_ if it was done well. Muggles were missing out. 

“It’s not much.” There was that tenseness about him again.

She couldn't grasp where this odd reaction came from. “Did you.. make this?”

He pressed his lips together before he replied. “Yes.”

This was not what she was expecting. Frankly, she felt a little useless in comparison. She did have some cooking capabilities; eggs and toast. Easy things. but nothing that involved the herbs and preparation that went into a chicken roast. "It smells and looks wonderful, Tom. Thank you." She hoped he would take her hearty compliment seriously.

And Alya realised, that he must never have people over. Perhaps no one even knew where he lived. He was an enigma even to his friends. What Tom had was enough for him, but would definitely be ridiculed by the wizards he surrounded himself with; wealthy purebloods with sixty-acre mansions and an army of house-elves at their beck and call. Why he chose to spend his time with pompous, incompetent wizards was beyond her.

It was very humbling and endearing. He was full of surprises and she’d forgotten how much she loved discovering every single one of them. That feeling of tipping over the edge of a cliff blossomed within her again. They would need to have a serious conversation soon. She was terrible at those. But her heart could not take it much longer, not knowing where they stood.

Her stomach rumbled again. She would take care of her body now, heart later. Alya wanted to devour the entire plate, but her etiquette got the best of her, she ate at a reasonable pace in neat bites. As Tom brewed and she ate, the scene felt oddly domestic.

“Where did you learn how to cook?” He was silent for a long moment, and Alya sensed that her simple question, did not have a simple answer.

“The orphanage.”

Alya swallowed, the tasty food going down in an uncomfortable glob. Tom wouldn't look at her, as he stirred the cauldron. "The stint in the kitchens was brief, however," he said, "they don't trust you after a few... accidents." 

His jaw barely moved when he spoke, stony and direct. But Alya knew, it contained an undercurrent of self-loathing and bitterness towards his past he hid from the world. At least until she came along. Alya wanted to reach for him, hold him, tell him that she didn't care where he came from or who he was before. That if she could take away his pain she would. But she remained seated and chewed silently for a while. 

His sleeves were rolled up, shirt untucked, cheeks and throat tinted rouge, hair curlier from the steam. There was a line of sweat at the side of his neck that she followed with intense fascination. She chewed slowly and swallowed deeply, observing the strength of his forearms and elbows as he ground ingredients in mortar and crushed ashwinder egg in his palms. He kept a straight face and pretended not to notice her staring. But a ghost of a devilish, knowing smile dusted over his lips, so subtle she must have imagined it.

He knew exactly what he was doing to her, and Alya did not care that he did. 

Finished with her food after a second helping, she moved her attentions to summon a peppershaker into her left palm. But it would not budge. The tendons in her wrist bunched as she tried again, but it was as if she were taming a defiant elephant. She was the first child in her generation of Moores to be able to do tiny acts of wandless magic. Making Badger catch her flying spoons and chucking peas at Guinevere during dinner was one of her favourite pastimes. Now she couldn't even manage this?

“This has ever happened before, not to this extent," she murmured, quietly infuriated. If Tom looked closer he might see steam coming out of her ears as she scorned her failed attempt. 

"Keep trying. It might work."

She stopped and scowled, "it'll just be the same." 

"You seem like someone who doesn't like to do anything, unless they're good at it." Alya gave him a hard look. Wasn’t he supposed to be extra nice since she was his patient? He did not need analyse her so keenly.

Tom shrugged. "Just an observation."

"You are not helping."

“It will get better.”

She sighed, leaning back with defeat. “I wish I never got tired.”

“I’m sure there’s a spell for that somewhere.”

“Is the spell somewhere in there?” She remarked wryly, at his bookshelves, every row was arranged by subject and alphabetically. There were titles on subtopics she had never even heard of before.

“Don’t judge my reading selection." It was a snappy remark, but there was mirth lighting his eyes. 

“You truly read everything don’t you?”

“Learning never ends.”

Tom studied because he loved to be the most knowledgeable, but Alya did not see the point in learning everything if you weren't going to use half of it. She read what she liked and tried to be good at only that. _All right, perhaps his observation was on the dot._

Alya got up and dropped to her knees peering at a small section that was surprisingly fiction books. “I loved this book when I was young," she pointed gleefully at a worn copy of the Secret Garden. “I can’t believe you have it.”

“The library was giving away old books, I had no idea that was in there," he said dismissively. "I meant to get rid of it.”

“My grandfather used to read this to me, knowing that my grandma would never approve.” She shut her mouth. Did anyone ever read to Tom when he was a boy? Probably not. Her childhood was not was picture perfect, but things were much better when her grandfather was alive.

“What is it about?” He asked anyway.

“Children who—they were neglected and then they found a secret garden hence the title,” she talked a bit faster, “and they found solace in it and friendship.”

He gave a disinterested hmph. “Doesn’t sound like a something I would’ve liked.”

“I think you can learn a lot from children’s books, even if they’re not meant for us." He gave her a thoughtful look. She wished she knew what Tom was thinking about. He was being awfully quiet the past half hour. 

“Anyway—“ She hopped onto the table by him. The blanket unwound, exposing a flash of bare thigh. Tom’s eyes darted down, mets hers, then quickly shifted to the cauldron. Alya face burned. She awkwardly wound the blanket tighter with her left hand. If he wasn't already flushed from the steam, she was sure his cheeks would be redder. She scanned the expensive ingredients as Tom picked up asphodel. Lilac spider-webbing branched from each petal as it plopped into the black mixture. She took a whiff of the billowing steam and grimaced. “Griffin nails?”

“An unfortunately large number of them.”

She was not looking forward to drinking it. Alya hummed and held up a dozen various ingredients. Tom could name and give her at least three trivia facts on each. “Wiggentree leaf, often confused with dittany. It is used for healing potions, namely Sleeping Draughts and the Draught of Living Death." Tom grinned at her with his continued success. Alya could have sworn he memorized the Potions textbook word for word. She put the leaf down and picked up a dark red tooth-shaped object.

"This is dragon-horn. Professor Slughorn would love this," she said, remembering their bumbling Head of house. "He was rather pompous about _luxury_ potion ingredients."

"When they didn't make a damn difference." Tom gave a chuckle that was low and warm.

Alya listened attentively as he dived into a dozen anecdotes about Slug Club parties and the liberties Slughorn gave him for being, well, _him._ But Tom was glowing when he spoke of Hogwarts. It had a devoted place in his heart. 

"Unfair," she shook her head with mock disapproval. A tiny bit jealous, yet impressed. "Sluggy _let_ you go down to the Forbidden Forest? What did you see there?" 

"Most times, not much. It's nice to walk there in the mornings. It's peaceful. I did catch a herd of unicorns grazing, once. It was wonderful."

"I would have liked to see that," she said with a wistful smile. "But hold on a second, how in Merlin's name, did you manage to get him to let you do that?" 

He arched an arrogant brow. It was rather obvious, Tom had a smile that could get him anything he wanted. "It was very easy. I am, by nature, relentlessly charming."

_I know. We both know. All of wizarding Britain knows._ She tried not to roll her eyes. "Yes, but give me specifics."

"The professor was very sore that no one complimented him on his bejeweled bezoar tie. I'm sure you recall the one."

Alya laughed. "I remember that tie. They looked like colourful turds." 

"Honestly, it was the least I could do," Tom shrugged, looking very toughed-up and masculine.

She wanted to humble him just to annoy him. "Such a charitable man."

"Slughorn does love getting compliments." 

"Kiss-arse," she murmured, and made to kick his thigh, but his reflexes were faster. He stopped her with a heavy, large palm on her knee. The blanket separated their skin, but the heat of him seared through. Her throat went dry, an uptick in her pulse. The very air around them thinning. _Finish what you started,_ she wanted to tell him, _do it._

But they left it as that; he removed his hold at the same time she moved her knee. She chewed anxiously on her lip, trying to think of anything else to say to fill the silence. Then turned behind her and pulled a basket of herbs and cantered oils. She took out peppermint extract, rose it to the cauldron.

“That -" Tom put a finger to her wrist "- is not in the ingredients.”

They both pretended not to notice how her breath caught. Alya asked innocently. "Are we not at liberty to experiment, Professor Riddle?" 

His eyes dropped briefly to her mouth when she called him that. "We are, but not in this case," he said, more serious.

"But surely you must recall Page 77 of Advanced Potions. The Chapter on Additives." 

Tom frowned. "Chapter on-?" 

"Oh my," Alya lifted a hand to her mouth, scandalized. "Something you don't know?" 

"You're trying trick me," he scowled. "Referencing a nonexistent chapter." 

"You mustn't be so easy to trick." She was rather pleased he had no comeback. "Peppermint has no magical properties. What it _does,_ is obscure griffins nails. It will make swallowing this concoction less of a burden. Take pity on me for that." 

"Fine." He pursed his lips. "It would be rude of me to argue with an injured lady." 

"But you were already doing that." She threw him a devilish smile and happily added several drops. 

His eyes narrowed at her. "You somehow manage to be the most exasperating and charming person in the room, don't you?" 

"That is the highest-modicum of compliment coming from you, Mr. Relentlessly Charming." He laughed. And somehow she felt like she'd won something. Why does he keep those laughs to himself? He shone brighter when he didn’t. 

Alya took another whiff, pleased with the scent. “A cook, a healer, a scholar. Is there anything you can’t do?”

“Doubt it.”

She rolled her eyes, almost groaning at his arrogance. "Too much?" Tom ventured, arching a brow. 

"Just a bit." 

He hummed. A daring gleam to his eye. "I have a theory, though."

"Which is?"

"I think-" he whispered low, leaned in just a little "- that you like it when I talk like that." He grinned and held her with a smouldering stare. Alya felt the breath leave her body and tingles of electricity rush across her skin. A curl of desire unfurling between her legs. Her lips parted, struggling to form a retort. "Another one of your arrogant musings, I think," Alya murmured. She tried to breath more evenly, but there seemed to be a short supply of air. Tom leaned toward her with a heavy-lidded smile. She was certain they would kiss. But he reached for his wand behind her, inordinately pleased with himself at her reaction.

“It’s ready.” He said, pretending as if nothing happened. 

Her cheeks still burned as she asked. “And I’ll be better tomorrow?”

Tom nodded and she drank a cupful of the dark potion, thankful the peppermint had drowned out the disgusting taste of the griffin nails. It was scratchy on the throat but the pain became number.

"Can you please take the bandages off so I can see?" Alya sat in a chair and dropped the blanket off one arm. As Tom unwound the bandages, she was too self conscious about her arm to be thinking of his touch. She braced herself and inspected the skin. It was well-healed, black twisting wounds replaced with faint-red twining lines. She breathed a sigh of relief. The arm weighed a ton, however, and ached from her shoulder blade to her wrist. "You mustn't move it too much," he instructed. "Try to keep it elevated." He explained the bandages were no longer required, just the sling. 

“Do you have any tea?" She asked when he was done.

"I have several. What's your favourite kind?" 

"Black tea would be grand. Two sugars." A few minutes later a steaming teacup floated to her. She noticed he had a wide selection of herbal teas and English Breakfast in his cupboard. She smiled. _Another tea enthusiast._

“Too much sugar isn’t good for you, you’ll get a toothache," he teased. "I speak from experience.”

“I must wholeheartedly disagree. There is nothing wrong with a bit of sweetness in your life." She grinned and sipped the tea. The warm liquid radiating across her chest.

"I think you might be right." Tom smiled with that smoulder again and leaned against the edge of the table. "Your hands have nicely healed too." He reached down, turned her left palm outwards. 

The touch of his skin against hers was so powerful it seemed to control her body. Alya breathed when he paused, stopped when he moved. She had no doubt that her heart was beating in time to his pulse. His fingers brushed over hers, soft as silk, moved higher, over the indents of her wrist, her pulse-point, just shy of her forearm.This had nothing to do with healing ministrations, he _wanted_ to touch her. 

Maybe she should just kiss him first. These glancing touches were driving her _mad._

But he let go again, as unreadable as ever. How was he so capable of switching the attraction on and off when she was literally about to explode. 

“I’ll draw you a bath.”

Alya cleared her throat, tried to find where she misplaced her wits. The room was far too warm. "That would be perfect," she murmured. Dear God, did she _smell?_ She hasn't washed in three days. No wonder he didn't kiss her! But she noted there wasn't any dirt or soot on her, he must have used _Torgeo_ cleaning spells. That was infinitely more embarrassing, though. 

"I figured you would want a proper bath when you woke," he said with that infernal politeness. "And some privacy, of course.”

* * *

_**TOM** _

Tending to Alya the past three days had been a nightmare. Not because he didn't want to do it. But because every time he extracted a measure of dark magic from her. Her piercing scream of death nearly ended him. He called out for her, but she couldn't hear him. The world was frighteningly quiet when he waited for her wake. He did not get a wink of sleep, only resting his eyes while he sat sentinel near her. Her body healed remarkably, but it was her mind he was worried for. That the dark magic had stolen it like they did the minds of those subjected to _Cruciatus_ for too long.

Tom was not afraid of many things. But the short-list lengthened, with the addition of Alya's possible death. He did not even want to think about the vengeance and fear he would have unleashed on the world if she did. But he had to force this fear aside and believe in her and that she would make it.

And she did. Her inviting presence filled his home with warmth and radiance. The fact that she admired his small flat as though it were a castle, after he's seen the palaces she was raised in, made him treasure her honesty and earnestness, even more. Tom knew he made the right decision to bring her there. He was the best to care for her, and nothing about his private space would ever be the same now that she had graced it. He was glad to see her recovering and almost herself again, although she'd buried her guilt in a shallow grave, for tonight.

The evening passed in a splendid and heart-warming way. How surprising it was, that he would cherish the simple delights of chatting to good company and watching her drink tea. Alya could make him feel like the most powerful wizard in the entire universe, yet being him, Tom Riddle, was equally sublime when he was with her.

He heard her sighing heavily as he neared the bathroom door. She was inside taking a bath. As he passed it she called his name. Tom skidded to a halt. 

“Tom?” She repeated, a little louder. He swallowed roughly and flattened his palm against the door. “Yes?” He was not half as confident as he intended.

“Can you help me?”

"All right." He exhaled, pleading that once he opened the door, he would see her face. Not her breasts, her stomach, or any part of her naked body, for he might burst if he did. He tucked his desires aside for the sake of protecting her newly healed injuries. But he did not think he could take it for much longer. After what felt like a century of deliberation he turned the handle. “I’m coming in.”

He did not explode but heat rushed to his face, the air robbed from his lungs the moment he laid eyes the on her. Alya was still in the tub, the opaque, bubbly water line above her chest. The candlelight was vibrant and incandescent against the walls. She was turned sideways to face him, fingers curled on the edge, bubble foam on her shoulder. Her cheeks were warmed to that delectable nectarine shade, wet hair gleaming like polished onyx. The fact that her naked form was just there beneath the water, obscured and left to haunt his imagination, was even more enticing than if he'd seen all of her. 

He must have looked like he was having a heated internal debate. Her lips tipped up and she rested her chin on her fingers. “Shy, are we?”

“What do you need help with?” He said, forcing casualness to his tone, keeping his eyes trained on her face and _only_ her face. 

“My hair is horrible and matted, and it hurts to lift my arm. I don’t want to have to cut it off,” she said worriedly.

“I can help.”

She shifted in the water as he approached, rolling his sleeves to his forearms, conjuring a stool to sit at the head of the tub. Her skin was prickled with gooseflesh, and the sinful thought of what her nipples might look like in the water, shoved his mind into the gutter. Tom made the damning mistake of following a water droplet sliding from her throat to where the tops of her breasts met. He breathed out long and measured to get a grip of this crazed desire. The water was exquisitely hot, and he poured a sweet-smelling hair potion into his palm. 

He proceeded to patiently work his fingers through the knotted curls, from root to tip. He loved the feel of the lustrous glory of her raven hair between his fingers. Everything was under control, until she moaned softly in appreciation. Tom swallowed convulsively as hot blood rushed so quickly to his loins, he thought he might pass out on the tiles. Thankfully she decided to speak then;

“You would be a magnificent ladies-maid wouldn’t you?”

He smiled. “Another addition to my resume.”

She leaned away to check on his handiwork. At first, Tom wanted to trace her healing scars, so beguiling as they were, like the veins of a leaf. Then he saw the remaining hex mark between her shoulder blades over yellowing bruises. “Your back,” he whispered. Such delicate flesh, marred by him in the duel, what felt so long ago. He's only been tending to her arm and shoulder visible to him, never, ever dishonouring her by pulling her chemise straps down when she was unconscious.

“Oh. Right," Alya said quietly, not looking back at him. 

“I can help with that.” He placed his palm on her wet warm skin, and she shivered at his touch. He never ceased to be startled by how soft her skin was. Tom muttered an incantation. The skin healed, erasing every trace of dark magic where it did not belong. “There, it’s gone” he said, “I am sorry you've had that for so long.”

"It doesn't hurt anymore." Alya shifted in the water. Tom was struck again by how lovely she was as he stared at the upended vision of her; kissed by firelight, her eyes molten silver pools, piercing through flesh and bone, straight into his soul. 

“I forgive you."

_Forgiveness,_ another word that was foreign to him he needed an ancient runic scroll to translate it. The way she looked at him was profound. He felt that Alya had known him from his birth, up until this moment, and would know him until the end of time. That sinking feeling returned, but instead of it plunging him into murky depths he feared. He was almost certain that it was taking him in her direction instead. That his entire world was orbiting around Alya. The sun in her face, the moon in her eyes. 

A pleasant evening of closeness and flirtation could not eliminate the reality that there was a lot left unsaid between them, especially considering how they left things outside Borgin and Burkes. And Tom knew he had to step up and address it sooner or later. She jumped in front of flames for him, he could surely stop being a coward and have an honest conversation with her. 

He stood abruptly, wiping his hands on a towel. He needed a moment alone before he said or did anything. “I’ll let you finish up in here.”

. . .

For so long Tom carefully picked his battles as he climbed his way to power. Now the battle picked him and he was almost certain he was going to lose this one. At midnight, he knocked, waited for her to admit him into the bedroom. Tom stepped inside, feeling like he was intruding into her bedroom, instead of the other way around. Maybe it was because she looked like she belonged there, on his bed.

Candles were lit by the windowsill, infused with sandalwood. Alya sat at the head of the bed, dried hair cascading over her shoulders. Her bottom half was beneath the covers, and she wore a black silk shirt of his that was kinder to her scarred skin. The injured arm no longer had bandages, she had it folded over her tummy, not moving it too much, as he instructed. 

She observed him idly, whilst Tom was _painfully_ aware of her. “I'll only be a moment. I am just grabbing a shirt.” He rummaged in the wardrobe and retrieved one. He hesitated, questioning where he was supposed to change. Feeling boyish and silly, he pulled his shirt off.

Alya's heated stare roved over him languidly. He flushed from his face to his chest, and prayed the ruddy glow of the candles masked it. He’s never cared that people found him attractive, his looks were just _there_ for him to make use of. Which he thoroughly has. But he liked that she liked what she saw. Tom changed and turned to her, as she—in a poor show of disinterest—dropped her eyes to the sling, fumbling with it.

He wanted her. He wanted to be wanted by her. He needed her to know that.

He was just going to have to stumble for a few painful minutes to express it.

Tom paused; readying himself as if he were about to step into a duelling ring. “Let me.” He sat by her legs. She scooted forward, and he took stupidly long to tie the knot.

“Tom.”

“Yes, Alya?” She was going first? He felt disappointed in himself that she'd beaten him to the punch. He tied the knot and waited.

“Well, I...I don’t know what to say, to be honest." 

_Please say it. Say anything._ Alya sighed, as if she too, was trying to get over her pride and just say what she had to. “Thank you--that doesn't seem like enough. But thank you, for everything. Truly. I’ll never be able to repay you for any of this.”

“You're welcome," he said, smiling. "And you don’t have to repay me.”

She dipped her gaze to her hands. "I'll be out of your hair, first thing in the morning."

Tom's smile wavered. He very much, did not want her to do that.

“And I have to ask you to keep what happened these last few days between us," she went on, "and same goes for moving forward. It's a lot to ask-”

“It's not," he shook his head. "I would never betray you like that. You can trust me."

"I am truly sorry that I got you mixed up with all of this," she said remorsefully. "You could have died." 

Tom did not regret a single thing. If he had not gone after her, he would have never realised it within himself how important she was to him. How essential she was to his great destiny. "But I wanted to help you, and you saved my life," he said. "I’ve never met anyone who could be that selfless."

She have a humorless snort. "Selfless? I am the most selfish person you’ve ever met."

"I find that very hard to believe." 

At this point, she couldn't quite meet his eyes anymore. "If-if you knew what I did to cause all this. You wouldn’t look at me the way you are now."

"It won’t change,” he said staunchly. “I promise."

She gulped nervously as if she were undertaking a hideous task. “I haven't told anyone this." 

"I'm listening." 

Alya lifted her head, stared at him dead in the eyes, shoulders rising with her gathered courage. "I killed someone."

Tom said nothing, didn't react. Her confession had been scarcely above a whisper but he heard it. 

"In Greece. There was-there was a manticore. Mother, myself and Magnus Skarrson were hunting," Alya went on, shakily. "It was a utterly reckless idea. Rich, coming from me. But he had a hold over her. It wouldn't be long until he hurt her, really hurt her. And hurt me. So-so there we were. In the manticore's lair. We almost had it, in the trap. But it freed itself." She exhaled, shakily, but it was too late for her to stop.

"Those creatures. They taunt you and they-they sing, and I could've sworn it knew who I was, who we were. Then Magnus latched onto my mother. And all I felt in that moment, was how much I hated him with every fiber of my being. And I knew what he would do if I didn't do something first. So I struck him with an _Immbolus_ and I pushed him. He cried out and I pushed harder."

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "I always remember that moment. That when I could have done something different to save him. I didn't. Something came over me, then and the lair started to collapse around us, another burst of uncontrolled magic. And God, that _sound,_ the one he made when the manticore caught him. I still hear it. And I still see him sometimes.." she whispered. “I think he’s waiting for me to die too.”

Alya waited, quiet and anxious, for Tom's judgement. He had a sense that an enormous weight had been lifted off her shoulders to share this secret with someone. Since the moment Tom met her and knew she was hiding something, something she was guilty of...he did not expect this to be it. He also knew this was a moment he had to tread carefully through. 

Truthfully, no one has ever confessed to him of their guilt. His followers were guilty of disobedience but this was very different. Internally, he was grateful to be the one Alya shared this with. Did he think any less of her? No. He did not care if she killed one man or one-hundred. His promise stayed true. In fact, he respected her even more. She had ambition and she was ruthless. And when it came down to it, she could make the difficult choices. The thought of her unleashing her power to smite her enemies, was almost arousing enough to make him hard. 

But Tom found it odd, to see someone be so burdened over the loss of an enemy. He's never felt an ounce of remorse for the lives he's taken. His Muggle father who abandoned his mother, the last evidence of his disgusting Muggle-half he needed to eliminate. He still does not understand how Alya could stomach to be around her filthy vampire mother whom nearly _murdered_ her in a blood rage. Alya even cried for her. Tom would have gladly killed her mother. Part of him still wanted to, if it would keep Alya safe. But she would never forgive him if he did. He was going to have to stomach this fact too. 

Tom also felt that part of her guilt was to do with the fact that this was her first kill. But deep down, Alya _knew_ Magnus Skarrson deserved to die. She regretted killing him, only because of the trouble it caused thereafter. But this theory would be rather indelicate to share with her.

Thus, he found it tricky to determine his external reaction. What did normal people do when they learnt of news like this? Pray the murderer would be absolved of their sins? Stumble away in fear and disgust? Order her to confess her crimes to the nearest Auror?

"I am so sorry that you are suffering through this Alya. I understand your pain." Tom did not understand. But he would do everything in his power to lessen her guilt. He held her hands in his and kissed each. She was so innocent, so fearful of that dark side of her soul. "I know it's hard to forgive yourself, but you did what you had to do, to protect someone you care about. You saved her, like you saved me."

She gaped at his reaction, yet refused to accept it. "I-I don’t deserve your sympathy Tom." 

That infuriated him. She deserved the world. He would hand it to her right then if she asked. "And why not?"

Alya gulped. "There’s something.. evil in side of me. And everyone has always seen it. This is more evidence of it." 

"That's not true. You weren’t destined to become something evil." 

She gave an adamant shake of her head. "What if I was? And this is just the beginning of it?"

"You choose your destiny, Alya," he said fervently. "And remember, true magic is neither black nor white. There is a balance. A divine one. And when I look at you-" Tom stopped, his throat tightened as her piercing silver stare fixed on him, hanging onto his every breath.

"Tell me," she whispered. Tom gulped, tongue-tied. "Tell me, Tom," she urged, a bit more firmly. "What do you see when you look at me?" He knew that if he didn't do it now, Alya would never give him another chance. He had infinite lines of flowery sentences crafted. He tossed them aside. There were some moments where it was far better to say the first thought that came to mind;

"I need you to understand something," he took a steadying breath. "A long time ago, the orphanage brought me to a church because, I was an odd baby, I didn't cry enough. I could do inexplicable things. They were terrified of me. They took me to these priests trying to cleanse the evil from me. They were nothing, merely Men of God spewing hate and rubbish." Tom tasted bile just speaking of it. 

"They believed in a higher power greater than them that they could not see. They wanted me to believe in it too, but how could I?" He forced his hands not shake as he cradled her face. "I never believed in anything divine until I met you.” 

Her face was still. Tom dropped his hands, flexed them. He wasn't making any sense. He said too much. He cared for her. There. That was the truth of it. He cared for her and if she had died he would have cracked the Earth’s core open and released hellfire. Tom swallowed his nausea and braced himself for her to tell him he-the half-blood orphan-was a fool for wanting her, for his words to be met with mockery and ridicule. 

Alya lifted her hand, smoothed it over the lines in his forehead...gently lifting his chin. 

“Tom.”

A violent shiver wracked through him, the emotion in her voice, that was the only declaration he needed to hear. "Oh Tom, you're so-"

Tom silenced her with a kiss, soft and reverent, and she kissed him back, holding the curve of his neck, the sweetness of her mouth pouring into his, eliminating every trace of bitterness within him. Alya whispered his name again and again, _Tom, Tom, Tom._ That common name he detested became the most perfect sound when it came from her lips.

How did he survive so long without this? The fullness and softness of her mouth, her taste. None of their previous urgency was there, as they savoured one another. Alya was powerful against foe, against him. Yet she blushed and trembled beneath his lips as he deepened the kiss. She hummed and carded her fingers across his scalp, her tongue tracing his cupid’s brow. He let her in; and she gently explored his mouth, tasting of peppermint candy.

Alya leaned from him and planted a kiss on the side of his forehead, "You taste so good," she murmured breathlessly, then kissed the same spot on the other side. She kissed both his cheeks, the corners of his jaw. A comforting symmetry, he didn’t know he needed. The tenderness made his heart squeeze, so sweet it was painful.

Her mouth met his again with more fervour, a hand fisted in his shirt. Her arm in a sling acted like a giant wall between them. “Will you stay tonight?” She whispered. "Please."

Tom could barely get air into his lungs. His desire was a blade, sharpened on a whetstone, white-hot and slicing down his centre. It took every single ounce of restraint not to tear the shirt off of her and roll her beneath him. He was exposing himself even more. But for tonight, he would give in and let those emotions take hold of him, he'd already crossed the point of no return. 

"Alya," he pulled further from her, already missing the warmth those few inches apart deprived him of. "I want you, so much," he whispered hoarsely. "I can't even begin to explain it-"

She clutched his forearm, even a chaste touch as that, sliced him deeper. "I want you, too," her irises were dark as iron, urging him closer. To learn that she wanted him as much as he wanted her, made him ache. Such sweet agony. "I lie in bed and think of you and I-" she blushed crimson. Tom could scarcely suppress groan, at the erotic image of her twisted in her bedsheets with her fingers between her legs, wishing it was him. 

He was trying to hold onto his control, but his breaths were getting shorter, faster. She kissed him. The shift forward was painful as she winced against his mouth. Tom held the nape of her neck, and kissed her even harder, until the sting of pain was forgotten. He broke away and ran his hand over the sling. He wanted her to be able to hold onto him with both arms, when he moved inside of her. No unnecessary pain.

“You need to be careful _. We_ need to be careful. I-I don’t trust myself to be gentle.” Her forehead creased adorably, frustrated at his immense restraint. Tom could get use to this, Alya hot and bothered for him. Even though it was torture for him too.

But Alya was never one to give in so easily. She rested her hand on his thigh. Tom's breath hitched, and his heart pounded so loud it was a wonder she did not hear it. She slid her hand perilously higher and pressed her smooth cheek against his. Her lips brushed the shell of his ear, hot breath fanning over his throat and collarbone. “Sometimes,” she purred, “I might not want gentle.” Tom choked on thin air, as the hard tips of her breast through clothing, grazed him. “Sometimes,” she drew away an inch, and then came back with a fervent whisper. “I want you to take me so hard that I am reminded of you there, the next day." 

Tom groaned desperately. He ground down hard on his teeth, holding the sheet tightly until his knuckles were white, tormented with the sinful image she fed him. He never thought mere words could make him so light-headed, his blood rushing fast and low. He nudged her good shoulder to look at her face. Her eyes were lidded, smile intense yet playful, enjoying every moment of relentlessly teasing him. 

“Alya...” his voice was hoarse and strained, it didn't sound like him at all. “You are not playing fair.”

“I know,” she kissed him lightly, just a glance of lips. “But I like hearing you say what you want." Her finger traced him temple to chin. “For tonight, please stay. Don’t leave me alone."

“All right.” He would never say no to her when she asked him like that. Tom knew that this was fast, that he did not have a shred of experience with something-someone-like this. But he had to trust his instinct, trust that the universe would align the pieces for them, that he would never forget to try and enjoy it moment to moment. He breathed out long and deep, and laid next to her in his bed, feeling drunk, knowing this was real and not a dream. 

Alya reached over with her good-hand and played with his hair, twining the curls with her fingers. He relaxed into her touch. "I like your hair like this," she murmured. "It's so soft." He liked watching her, watching him. How could he have ever denied himself such a wondrous thing?

Tom traced her jawline, whispering low. "I must tell you, I cannot let you get away with your teasing."

"Then don't." Alya grinned wickedly.

Within a second Tom hovered over her, painfully aware that he needed to be careful not to sink too low. She shrugged the sling off, but kept the arm rested by her tummy. She rose to give him a deep kiss, teeth nipping at his lower lip, the hot movements of their mouths fanning his own flames of passion. He hated that he couldn’t have her tonight. But there would be more nights to come. Anyone who dared to come in-between them, would rue the day they ever tried to break them apart.

Alya broke away, her expression soft, teeth sinking into the soft fullness of her lower lip. _God, it_ _should be a sin to have lips like hers._ “Tell me what you want."

“What I want?”

She nodded, grinning widely. He dug his nails into the pillow, this was going to be a painful night to get through. What Tom wanted was to take her in his bed, pinned to the bookshelves, bent over the table, on the carpet, on every surface in his flat.

He licked his lips, the top few buttons of her shirt were undone, an enticing deep V of uncovered skin between her breasts. “I want to see all of you," he whispered huskily. She gave short, staccato breaths as he undid a button, and another, and another, unveiling her to him inch by inch. Her stomach tensed as he reached the last button and he tore apart the two halves of black silk.

Tom’s mind emptied as he took a long drinking look at the expanse of her naked body, speechless and winded. His imagination paled in comparison to the reality of her bare skin gilded by firelight. Every breath she took was perfectly timed with the heave of her chest. His eyes roved from her throat, to the fullness of her breasts, round and pert, those taut dark berry nipples, the gentle curve of her waist and rounded flare of her hips. There was that birthmark by her collarbone that tormented him to no end, a yellowing bruise at her left hip, the right had faint white stretch marks. Tom treasured every single unique feature of her.

She was perfect. Perfect. _And mine. All mine._

"You are so beautiful." He ran his fingertips from her shoulder, neck, jaw, throat. "Divine. Absolutely divine." He cupped her breast, as he predicted, they fit his hand perfectly. She moaned softly as he groaned and squeezed her sensitive flesh. He held her waist tightly so she couldn’t squirm too much. Slowly, ever so slowly, he bent his head until he could just barely touch her nipple with his tongue. She moaned and he teased her some more. Her kept her on the brink, her head dropping back. It was then that he replaced his tongue with his lips and sucked her, hard. She cried out half in pain, half in pleasure. Tom smiled and moulded the other with a large palm, then kissed his way to the left breast, her heartbeat pulsing against his lips and took the puckered flesh into his mouth. 

“That’s all?” She breathed. His cock throbbed, hearing her voice, hoarse and broken with need. He lifted his head. A powerful sense of possession coming over him. Alya was his. Body and soul. His to protect whether she wanted him to or not. And when the time was right, Tom would make certain she knew it too, over and over again day and night, until she screamed his name and could not live without him.

Emboldened by her little dare. His mouth watered. Her musky scent of arousal filled the bedroom. He wanted to lick the sweetness that flooded from her slit until she came apart but that would be too much for either of them. “I want to make you come,” he said, rougher than he intended. “And I want to watch as you do, with my name on your lips, and my fingers inside of you.”

With a sharp inhale, her eyes fluttered open. He traced feather-light circles over her abdomen. Alya writhed beneath him, biting her lip to stop herself from begging. Tom grinned. She would be pleading for him soon enough. He spelled away her lace panties. That trick made her gasp, her mouth an amusing oval. Her sex was just as he remembered it, rough dark curls over her mound, slick, plush inner lips. 

Tom pushed her thighs apart, stroking up and down each soft inner thigh, teasing her mercilessly. He leaned towards her ear, ran his fingers through her moist heat. _Yes,_ so soft and wet for him. "Where did you touch yourself when you thought of me?" He whispered sultrily. "Here?" Tom flicked and caressed her swollen clit. Alya moaned, as made he slow, firm circles over it, remembering how she liked it. "Did you wish it was my mouth?"

Alya shuddered and whimpered. "More Tom...more, please.." 

"Or here?" He delved two fingers inside of her. Alya pressed her cheek into the pillow crying out. Tom groaned, as her heat clenched around him, his elbow almost buckled beneath his weight. He wished it were his cock buried inside of her, coated by her essence, instead of his fingers. 

His thumb strummed over her clit, fingers curled inside of her. He watched, amazed, as each small movement profoundly affected her. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, gasping and sighing in pleasure in time with his ministrations. "Yes Tom, just like that," she moaned, breathy wanton words rushing past her lips. He caught her nipples, suckled, teased and licked them. Tom hissed feeling that sweet tension from her, as she loomed close to release, her body trapped inbetween his hand and the bed, grinding against both. He moved to kiss her tenderly.

_"Tom,"_ she gasped, breaking free of the kiss. Her nails dug into his shoulder, the scrape sending a shiver down his spine. Her body seized his fingers, and he wrapped his forearm around her like a band to keep her steady.

And then he felt it. Alya's magic imbuing the air, radiating off of her. Frantic and pulsing like she was, the coiling, building pressure of it enfolding him, as she climbed towards the peak of ecstasy, on the brink of shattering. She locked around him, crying out his name, half her body lifting off the mattress with the force of her climax. _So fucking beautiful._

He captured her lips in a devouring kiss, feeling her moan into his mouth, hungrily wanting to feel more of her power rush through him. Tom eased her through it with soothing strokes of his fingers. The feel of her losing control, almost made him lose his. He would need to deal with that later. But now, he looked at her, trembling beneath him. Tom sucked his fingers clean of her and kissed her, plunging his tongue inside, so she could taste herself.

A little while after, Alya stretched and relaxed, sleep tugging at her eyelids. He fixed her sling. She was so soft and warm next to him. He cocooned them in the bed covers. No cold shadows, belonged in this warm sanctuary they created. The candles blew out with a single wave of Tom's hand. Alya asked him to tell her of his secret spots in Hogwarts. He was more than happy to, and she listened as if he were singing lullaby.

She drifted to sleep, her hand on his chest, closed like a flower bud. Tom stared at her a bit longer, the moonlight caressing her raven waves, lashes carpeting her cheekbones. The comforting weight of her next to him made him feel peaceful yet giddy at the same time. His mind was turning, but with good things for once. His excitement at the endless possibilities with her, how his bed was going to smell like her, and that shirt she wore would be woven with the memory of tonight forever...

_Forever._

_Forever._ Tom brushed the horcrux scars over his left rib.

Just how many more nights did he have left with her?

Tom held her to him _._ He wanted to wind himself so tightly around her, that they could never free themselves from the other. With that, he fell into a fitful sleep.

* * *

 **A/N: What do you guys think? Too mushy? I re-edited this so many times to get the right balance for Tom's POV. Tom doesn't need to worry, his own needs will be addressed very soon ;)**

**Also, Happy New Year everyone :) I never expected my little story to get any attention, so I want to thank every single one of you for your comments, kudos and continued reads. I am praying that the new year will be better for all of us, for our health, for our bank accounts (please). I pray that we will get jobs (God knows I need one) and succeed in our education and relationships.**


	20. Fear of Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> our mains spend the morning together, fluff. Warning for a bit of smut  
> 

**_ALYA_ **

Tom Riddle looked younger when he slept. He was there and _real,_ open to study at her leisure. Eyelids the colour of dawn, thick lashes dusting his cheekbones, the tips of them wispy and lighter than the dark roots. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing an expanse creamy skin. _Damn,_ she thought, biting her lip. She'd lucked out, somehow. Whether it was intentional or not, his hand landed over her left breast during sleep. She liked the fit of it there, her heart beating just below his palm. Comforting, warm, yet somehow possessive in way that sent tingles everywhere. 

Alya knew of attraction, how to be well-dressed, how to beguile and tease. Men whom were interested returned it to her in kind. It made her feel wanted but in an empty way. No one in her entire life ever made her feel as cherished or beautiful as Tom did. She'd even come to believe it was impossible. But he held her face in his hands, and gazed at her like she was the most beautiful, divine creature that have ever walked the Earth, and it made her heart soar. 

Last week when she looked at herself in the mirror, without delusion or pride or vanity, she could honestly say, she never felt good enough, for anyone, not even for herself. But today, if it was possible that one person, could look at her like she was everything and more, perhaps she could start to look at herself that way too. Alya realised he's looked at her like she was _more_ for weeks, and she was blind to it. Even those ugly parts of her, he accepted. Telling him the truth had been the best decision she made in a long time. 

Her back ached from the position she slept in but she did not want to move, not yet. She closed her eyes and laced her fingers with his over her breast. Tom returned her grip, yet his breathing remained levelled. Even in his sleep, he reached for. It was an errant thought that was too sweet and good to be true for a bond that was so fresh.

She swallowed, throat tight. Tom was untouchable, unbreakable. The subject of many infatuation during school, even nowadays. She was not deluded enough to pretend he had not been on her every thought for months. And everything was moving so fast. She should be more careful with her heart--but she had been careful her entire life. How was she to learn of the mysteries of love and the universe if she never gave herself a chance to experience it?

She acknowledged it was trite, ridiculous, and so unlike her after years of sleeping with someone and leaving their bed cold come morning. But maybe, just maybe, she pretended it was corny to diminish it, because in truth, she was downright terrified. _Slow down,_ she told herself. _He's here now. Think about now._ Yet fear must be a natural response to the possibility of something real with him. _That's what he wants too...right?_ Alya sighed heavily, staring at the ceiling, listening to his soft sounds of slumber. One thing remained clear. There was no disentangling herself from him. She did not want to.

She wanted him. No other man would do.

If only last night could last forever. But it was a Monday and the real world awaited. She nudged him. "Tom."

He woke instantly, blinking dazed at her, before a lopsided smile twined his lips. He looked boyish and sweet. "Alya," he murmured.

Her name on his lips, first thing in the morning. Perfection. "Morning," she whispered, unable to contain her own smile. He wrapped his arm around her waist, heavy and strong, pulled her to his warm chest. He nuzzled her neck, mumbling into her hair.

"What was that?" 

"I said," he lifted his head, moving aside a lock of her hair that stuck to his forehead. "I like waking up to you." 

She snorted, her face warming. If she was the type of woman to swoon she would have in that moment. "What?" He asked, voice scratchy and mellow from sleep. Alya sat up and leaned against the headboard. Her doubts from moments ago, very far away. 

"You just wake up and have the right words don't you?" 

"I'm only sharing what's on my mind." Tom pushed the blanket down and rubbed his eyes. She carded her fingers through his messy dark chocolate curls, simply because she could. He looked fucking _cute._

He sighed softly. "I dreamt of you." 

"You dreamt of me? What was I doing in the-"

He grinned wide and cheeky, a sparkle of humor in his squinted eyes. _Oh. T_ _hat kind of dream_. "Oh my," he crooned at her abrupt silence, "where is your mind taking you, Ms. Moore?" A large palm splayed over her bare thigh beneath the covers, making her yelp, as it curved to the inner side. "Somewhere debauched?"

She successfully whacked his side with a pillow. "Well it was _your_ dream, and I naturally would infer certain things when you smile at me that way!"

"Such wicked thoughts you have." He grabbed the pillow from her grasp with little effort. With one tug, she slid down to lie beside him once more. He rolled on top of her, hovering on his knees and hands, shadow and light dancing over his countenance. His smile became something which felt far too profound for the light moment. "I dreamt of you in that cave, with the wildfire," he whispered, the tip of his finger brushed her cupid's bow. "You were beautiful then, too."

She liked that too. How Tom made her feel like she could embrace the parts of her that she did not wholly understand. 

. . . 

They discussed their upcoming day as he checked her arm. There was no need for a sling and the twiny red lines of the wounds were fainter. To pass Tom's physical assessment she had to do two things a) lie down comfortably b) throw her arms around his neck with as much enthusiasm as possible. She passed with flying colour's and Tom crushed his lips to hers. Two pairs of joined arms and legs made an inelegant dive onto the bed, rolling on top of one another. The entire charade had her sides hurting in laughter, and Alya could not remember a grander start to her day than that. 

Finally peeling away, Tom went to take a shower. Alya transfigured an emerald green sweater of his into dress with a heart shaped neckline, a flowy A-line skirt and cap sleeves. After a good nights sleep she looked and felt more like herself. Her polished outward appearance masking the internal trepidation she felt to leave the comfort of his flat. She sat on the bed to pull stockings on when she noticed Tom's ring on the nightstand. It's band was gold, rather crudely moulded together in her opinion, snaking around a black diamond. Alya presumed it was a family heirloom made centuries ago given the level of craftsmanship. His mother died during childbirth, but perhaps he knew her side of the family?

Alya picked up the ring-

-Dropped it as the sensation of icy prickles shot through her hand. She stared at it, wide-eyed, then bent to retrieve it. Holding it in her palm, it wasn't as cold as it was initially. Some anti-thieving charm? There was definitely a magical quality to it. Was it just her imagination or did it feel like it was... ticking?

"Alya."

Tom stood in the door way. His jaw was sharp and hard, a small crease between his brows, breathing as if he'd sprinted the seven feet from bathroom to bedroom. She saw him shirtless for a moment last night, but never for this long, _never_ with the white towel slung low over his hips. _D_ _efinitely_ not with water droplets sparkling over his broad naked chest and collarbones. She followed a rivulet snaking over the hard planes of his stomach.

She stared at him, long and shamelessly. It was blinding how perfect he was to her. "You're beautiful, did you know that?" 

He swallowed, his smile not as steady. His eyes kept flitting from her face to the ring, and back. His hair was bit damp, shaped like raven wings. "Not something I am used to hearing, to be honest." 

"Really?" 

He smelt of freshly laundered linen and mint as he closed in. "People are not as bold as you are," he said. She took that as a compliment. He made to get the ring from her, but she closed her fingers over it before he could. There was a flash of panic, and he gulped.

"I was admiring it," she assured. It must mean a great deal for him to be unnerved like this. She outstretched her other palm for his hand, and carefully slid the gold band onto his right ring finger. His shoulders un-bunched once it was set in its place. Her thumb and forefingers kept the pressure on his wrist, studying them like she did every part of him. These hands were skilled and powerful, mended her, healed her, loved her body and caressed her with such care.

He stared at her, eyes as dark as flints, waiting for her to let go, to speak, to do anything really. She did not think of much else besides the fact that he was ungodly beautiful, and how she wanted him to feel as good as he made her feel.

She lifted his hand and sucked his fingers into her mouth. Tom's jaw went slack with a rough exhale, her upper lip nipped against the cold black diamond. The hot pulling sensation of the gesture went directly to the hardness that tented the towel. 

"What are you doing?" He rasped, a flush blooming over his cheeks. 

Alya smiled, she had him exactly where she wanted him.

"I think it's your turn." Her hands planted on his hips and backed him into the wardrobe door, reminiscent of how she cornered him in the Aquila stables. His protests nonexistent now.

Tom forced himself to stay still as her fingers landed lightly on his chest. He inhaled sharply through his teeth as they brushed over a flat nipple. She moved further down, trailing her fingers over his stomach, muscle rippling like satin over steel, mesmerized by the exquisite contrast of cold water droplets on hot skin. Her finger traced the pronounced line that arched over one hip towards his groin, then it's twin from the other side, both paths leading to his erection straining the towel. 

His hands were in fists pressed into the wood, no doubt his nails making crescents in his palms, as he held onto every last shred of restraint not to pin her and take her right then and there. She bent her head, tongue darting out, and licked a droplet off his chest. She inhaled his fresh and clean scent. His throat bobbed high as he swallowed, voice detached and hoarse. “Alya...please.”

She fucking loved it. He's never pleaded for her before. “Please, what?” She canted her head upwards, their lips inches apart. Tom's eyes bored into her soul with a scorching passion that could have consumed her whole. He uttered one word from deep in his throat; 

"Kneel." 

The savage demand of his tone made her thighs tremble. And she did as she was told. Alya dropped to her knees, undoing the towel on her descent and - _Oh God._

He was gloriously naked, bared for her in his entirety. He was so hard, his cock tipped upwards, thick and hungry for her, weeping fluid. Heat pooled in her core, aching with need. She could not wait to finally have him. Soon, hopefully. His legs and arms, were sculpted with an artiste's perfection, a balance of lean yet powerful. She drank up every inch of him with her eyes; from the sinewy veins along his biceps, the light-brown freckles on left thigh, to the twin scars over his left rib, two inches below the nipple. She hadn't noticed them last night, but she adored them nonetheless. 

She licked her lips. His jaw twitched, demanding nature crumbling, torn apart with frantic anticipation. She refrained from touching his most sensitive flesh just yet. Instead, she caressed his thighs, that delicious line where the muscles met, then moved upwards to the inner thighs. He breathed harder, shorter, more desperate. She was determined to make him call her name, for him to know that only she could make him fall to pieces.

When Alya took him into her mouth, their eyes locked. He gave a guttural groan, lips parting open, eyes blackened by primal desire. She sucked and stroked him in hot sinuous movements, licking him from root to tip. His eyes glazed over and he threw his head back against the wardrobe, rattling it as he did, the long line of his throat undulating as he moaned for her. " _Alya._ Oh _fuck_ your mouth-“ Tom's voice dissolved into a long groan, and he could not manage any more than a moan or breathlessly chanting her name like a prayer.

His breath turned ragged when she made slow circles at the head. It was hot, hard and satiny soft as she remembered, and he tasted like salt, cold water, and him. Her fingers encircled his shaft at the root, squeezing and pulling, before sealing her lips around him again, her fingers following her mouth with each descent. She felt him fight the urge to thrust, but she kept her own rhythm and pressure, the tip of his cock hitting the back of her throat.

She smoothed her hands over his thighs, his stomach, his balls, clutching his hard bottom to feel the muscle as it tensed. His hands were absurdly gentle, brushing over her shoulders, caressing her cheek, fingers threading through her hair. The hoarse sounds of him coming undone fuelled her arousal. She squeezed her thighs together, wet between them. Every time their eyes met, she moaned around him. His eyes would close, mouth gaping in agonising pleasure, shuddering as the hum wracked through him. 

_"Alya,"_ he moaned, with deep gusting breaths. He was close. "I'm-I want to be inside you-I-" he tried to tug her from him but she would not relent. She needed to taste him, to feel him filling her mouth. He groaned, he didn't have it in him to make her stop. He gave a hoarse, unintelligible shout and came, his granite features shattered with ecstasy. She never felt more powerful.

Afterwards, she could feel the static of magic in the air. She stood to look at him. Tom was naked and panting, flushed a bright red hue from cheeks to chest. He stared at her, entranced, as though she were his personal goddess. She rested a palm over his frantic heartbeat, skin dry as bone and hot as a furnace. With a coy and triumphant smile, she leaned towards his ear. "Get dressed Tom, you don't want to be late," she whispered, giving his cheek a very innocent peck. 

. . . 

"-The wards will let you through." She finished her explanation of how to get to the Suffolk estate, but Tom seemed distracted. "What?" 

His eyes swept over her, with that enchanted expression. "Just.. something about that colour on you."

_Our house colours?_ She wanted to ask, but her thoughts were interrupted by his hands on her face. His kiss was sweet and reverent. She would never have believed the Tom she knew in the beginning of the year was capable of such affection, but there were some surprises that were worth the wait. She smiled against his lips pressing her body eagerly against the hard length of his. She vaguely remembered a dream, long ago, where he came to her as an angel, embracing her just like this.

He moved his lips slightly to the right, until he was nipping the corner of her mouth. His tongue dipped and traced, learning the contours of her lips. His hands, which had moved to lightly splay against her back, grew more hard and tense as they pressed into the fabric of her dress. She loved how firmly he held her. It made her want him with renewed intensity every time their skin came into contact. There was something comforting in his height too, how his lips could graze the center of her forehead, how she could press her chin into his sternum to gaze up at him; 

"I really fucking like kissing you."

"Always so eloquent," he grinned. He cupped a handful of her bottom, squeezing lightly, and his brows shot up. "No underwear?"

"Well I don't know where you tossed it last night, casted it into non-being, apparently." She stood on tiptoes and looked over his shoulders as if it would magically reappear on the floor. He was tall for her, not that that was an insurmountable obstacle that would ever deter her. Tom caught her chin with his thumb and index to get her attention. 

"You know, I think underwear won't be necessary." 

Alya gaped at him, saw his seriousness, then laughed. "You're crazy-"

"May I please tell you why?"

She sighed imperiously. "Oh, if you must." 

Tom leaned in to her ear, breath burning her skin. "I want you to go out today, with me on your every thought," his palm grazed over her breast, "-knowing that at any moment I would come for you, and pull you somewhere quiet, where we can be alone-" lips brushed her cheek "-Where I can do wicked things to you-"

He pulled her hips roughly against his, with a hungry whisper. "And I want you to be soaking wet with need, waiting for me." 

Alya breath quavered and she held onto him more firmly as if the floor had turned to water. She licked her lips, moving her head back to look at him. "You are an evil, evil tease. "

He smiled wickedly. "It's rather thrilling, telling you what I want," he arched a brow. "So?" 

"So, what?" 

"Do you agree to my idea?"

She lightly thumped his chest. "Absolutely not!"

Tom sighed with mock displeasure, she liked the feel of his chest rising in time with hers. "You will one day." He came close until his nose was an inch from hers. "I can be _very_ persuasive." He whispered with arrogant twist of his lips. She held no doubt that he would succeed, she was melting into his arms as it was. 

"I'll be a gentleman today, however." Her black lace underwear materialised, hooked on his index. She went crimson, snatching it from him, muttering curses about his un-gentleman like manner while he laughed. Her eyes narrowed at him in a fuck-you stare. "I will get you back for this, you know." 

His eyes glinted like the black diamond of his ring. "Oh I never doubted that for a moment. I will thoroughly enjoy watching you try." He turned to take the door handle.

"Shall we?" His mirth disappeared, the impenetrable mask slipping back on moments before they faced the outside world.

**_. . ._ **

Mr. Ollivander recalled their names and wands the second they entered the wand shop. She presumed she would be matched with the exact same wand she purchased at eleven. So she was in a shocked daze, holding onto the new wand that chose her; twelve and a half inches of aspen (an inch longer than her first wand, and not alder wood), unyielding, with a dragon-heartstring core. It was white and finely grained, resembling ivory. It was weightier, not as flexible. Yet her connection with it was unmistakable.

Alya's grandparents were with her the first time she was here, both of them having staunch opinions on whether English Oak or Elm wandwood was best suited for her (Moores were an unbroken line of English Oak as it was rumoured to be Merlin's wandwood.) Until Mr. Ollivander told them (as politely as he could) to shut it and let the wands do the talking. Yet Tom was silent and watching, leaning against the counter. When her magic found it's match in the wand, white fireworks burst from the tip, a pleasantly warm breeze blowing through the shop. Their eyes snagged and Tom stared at her with an intensity that made her look away first. He _really_ shouldn't stare at her like that with the kindly Mr. Ollivander a mere five feet away. 

"A wand for charms and the most accomplished of duellers," remarked Mr. Ollivander, either purposefully ignoring or oblivious to the sparking tension between Tom and Alya. "Capable of highly sophisticated magic in the right hands. Don't be alarmed by the unyielding nature of the wand wood. It's a great indicator of the wand's potential loyalty to you. But it will take a few weeks to adjust to you." 

He had an odd way of referring to wands as if they were sentient. "I would much prefer to have an alder wood and unicorn core, for comfort's sake." It was silly request and she hated making it in front of Tom, but she was so attached to her previous wand, it survived countless ordeals with her. Perhaps there _was_ something inherently different about her she had not realised, until then. 

"-If we allowed wizards and witches to choose their wands, everyone would be running around with elm because it's the most 'sophisticated'!" Argued the wandmaker, talking animatedly with his hands. Elm wands were highly sought after by purebloods, for no factual grounds besides the fact it made you 'look' more pureblood. "You must take this wand, Ms. Moore, this wand chose _you!"_

"Very well," she gave a firm nod, out of any further arguments to deny him. "I'll take it." 

. . . 

She hooked her hand in Tom's proffered elbow and they headed south of Diagon Alley. He pointed out his tailor to her, she listed the tea shops she wanted to take him to, and for a good while they spoke of old haunts and people watched.

"Dumbledore didn't accompany you shopping?" She asked. "You were just a boy. Weren't you afraid to come here alone?"

"I'd never been more excited in my entire life." He smiled. Tom knew extensive history about the Alley and the shops along it. He took great interest in parts of their world that she had always taken for granted, having been raised in it since birth. She'd been coming to Diagon Alley even before Hogwarts. 

"What wood and core is your wand?" She asked. She had tried not to let it nag her too much, this new wand. But it was. 

"Yew and phoenix-feather core."

"Ah. The rarest of the Supreme cores." 

"Different cores have a different propensities to certain types of magic," he said. "Dragon-heartstring to dark magic, while unicorn hair is the opposite. Unicorn hair is not as durable as the other two cores either."

"It probably explains why my old wand exploded."

"As a rule dragon-heartstring produce the most power," he trailed on. "Rather unfair ruling, but that's the nature of it, skill to yield that power is a different story." 

She smiled as he prattled on about different types of wandwood. She would never get over how exceptional he was, knowing these little details that seemed vastly unimportant to her, but fascinated him. A ray of sunshine broke through the clouds, she tilted her face to it. He watched her as she did, the heat of his gaze stronger than the sun's. They were both quiet for a long moment; 

"Alya?" 

"Yes, Tom?" How she loved the lilt of his name when she said it. 

"You have no idea do you?" 

She peered at him, perplexed. "What do you mean?" 

The tail of his lips lifted. "How extraordinary you are. I was lying in bed last night, wondering if I'd exaggerated it in my head." 

“And?" She drawled. 

Tom shrugged a shoulder noncomittally. "I might have, just a little."

Her elbow met his ribs. He chuckled, warm and low. She enjoyed this levity between them. It did feel a bit bizarre to walk down the alley with so much different between them after months of push and pull. They haven't been around others within the pureblood society - would he change if they were? It was unavoidable. Both of them frequented the social club and Guinevere was marrying Rosier.

She could tell he was different around anyone else that wasn't her. She cherished the special place she held within him. It was nothing to fear, she told herself. It was normal to act differently depending on the company. She was the same. But Alya did not think she could bear it without boiling over with jealousy and stabbing her own heart in the process if he treated her how he did in that Edinburgh bar. "But truly-" He began, distracting her. They stopped before the wynd that led off to Knockturn.

"I felt your power in that cave, radiating to me," he said. His attention dipped to her mouth, dark eyes positively melting. "I felt it when you came last night."

"I've noticed it too," she murmured, enthralled. "Multiple times, actually. Only with you." She did not realise how important it was for her, to share that with him. She felt whole somehow, part of something far greater than herself because of him, as though they were two halves of a soul that were finally meeting. 

"Power knows power, Alya." He smiled at her, that smile that could melt hearts. She was not immune to it no matter how hard she tried to be. And those magnetic eyes pulled her in, until she felt herself reaching for his shirt, willingly dragged into their depths.

"I didn't mention this to you before, but the guardian in that cave," she found herself saying. "She-she said there was a path of darkness and a path of lightness for me. I don't know," she shook her head, trying and failing to banish her disquiet. "Prophecies can be unreliable, it could be nonsense. But I think getting a new wand, makes me question if I even know I am, anymore. Does that make sense?" 

"You do not need to be worried Alya. Whether it spoke the truth or not, or it was just ramblings to unnerve you, I think everyone comes to a crossroads in their life, when a great transformation is imminent." He said wisely, tucking an errant stand behind her ear. "And I want to help you with that. For you to become accustomed to your wand, and understand the depths of your abilities. I think it would be beneficial for you." 

"You've made this offer before," she asked, quirking a teasing brow. But she was grateful he was taking her seriously with this. "What do you get out of it?" 

"The pleasure of your company," he replied with a lopsided grin. "That's what I really wanted." 

"You could have led with that from the moment we met," she pointed out, swaying a little closer to him. 

He titled his head a fraction. "I could have, but I did not like you back then."

"True," she shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "I didn't like you then either." She sighed. "All right. You can help me." There was no one else she would rather duel with anyway.

He smiled faintly, then took her hand in his, looking dead serious. "And you forgive me, for what I said outside Borgin and Burkes?" He asked sincerely. Somehow, he knew what she needed to hear, before she even knew she needed it. "I am truly sorry for what I said. I didn't mean any of it."

"Yes, I meant what I said last night." Alya caressed his cheek. He'd earned her forgiveness the moment he literally knocked her off her feet in that cave. He smiled and kissed her gloved hand. "As for other matters," he diverted, "the Ministry won't let you see your mother yet."

"I figured they would not allow visitors, but I need to go back to Ireland anyway. My family is there now, and so is my uncle." The decision was not made lightly, she wanted to spend more time with him, but she had to visit her family. Tom had informed Guinevere on her behalf that she was alive but injured. She owed them some kind of explanation after the turmoil she put them through with her swansong letter. A visit to Willem was necessary too. 

"I see." He said in clipped tones, lips slightly pinched. She recognised it as displeasure but he quickly schooled it to a neutral expression. "I understand." 

"I will be all right, Tom."

"I know you will be." He brushed another kiss to her knuckles. It would have been a typical farewell to any lady, until he bashfully added; "but I do hope you won't be gone for too long." 

She beamed. "Not for long.” And she did not care if it was a horrid public display of affection. That the old crones of the society would tisk at it. She pressed up on her tip toes and kissed him, draping her arms around his neck, ignoring the dull ache in her shoulder. "Who knows?" She grinned playfully, breaking the kiss. "Perhaps I will return sooner than you think and pull you into a quiet alley to enact my wicked plans for you." 

* * *

**_TOM_ **

He could handle this. Surely, he could handle this. Of course he hated that she had to leave to Ireland. They only _just_ reunited. He felt like he were losing her all over again. He would never understand her inane devotion to family. But God, he would put up with it. He had to. He could control himself.

He watched her walk away. His watching, was nothing deep. Definitely not _yearning._ It was to ensure her safety. Just until she disappeared around the corner. There was a cold-blooded criminal who wanted that spellbook from her, after all. He could look away any time he wanted. He just wanted to keep looking at her. The morning sun kissed her face resplendently. He was merely admiring it. The storm would pass. He would not burn. The fire is his soul was subside. The warm ghost of her kiss would diminish. Tom did not quite understand what they had, but it was more than words could ever contain. What he must _not_ do is be careless enough to repeat his mother's shortcomings. He would not. He was certain of it. He had her. He knew he had her. The comfort of that knowledge would be enough. He could go back to complete normalcy and go about his day.

And then. Just as she turned the corner. She glanced over her shoulder. And she smiled at him. That soul-shattering, incandescent smile of hers. And just as soon as she'd given it to him. She was gone. Leaving him restless and wanting. 

_Fuck._

He stalked down Knockturn with a look that could freeze an ocean. He should not have been so bloody careless, leaving his Gaunt ring like that for Alya to find. Out of habit, he never showered with it, but then, no one has ever been in his flat before, alone, in a room with his horcruxes without him to guard it. He never anticipated she would actually _touch_ it! For the first time since creating them, he felt the separation of his torn halves. The ring yanked sharply at the invisible cord that attached it to the master soul within him. Tugging a rhythm of _danger, danger, danger_. A paternal sense of panic urged him to rush out of the shower as quick as possible. 

Alya literally held a part of his soul in her palm. An icy lance of panic and terror almost devoured him. Is this how she claimed a piece of him? By stealing his ring? Was this how she finally killed him? When he was naked and vulnerable? Toying with his emotions, seducing him into bed with her and stealing his horcrux under his nose? He was perilously close to lunging at her with a murderous snarl and ripping it from her grasp. If she felt any dark magic from it, or suspected _anything,_ then he would have-

Fuck. Tom did not even want to entertain the notion. But thank Merlin, Alya remained undiscerning. And as usual, around her, beneath her potent touch, his soul halves were serene and quiet. But what was he to do? Hide swaths of himself from her, forever? Tiptoe around facts about him, around her ceaseless questions. _Never_ tell her of the majesty of his legacy at the Heir of Slytherin? He needed a plan. He needed to go slow with her, reveal it piece by piece.

But how was he to plan anything when she distracted him by being _her?_

Being around her made him someone else entirely. Someone who shared too much, laughed, whom cared. Pitifully weak. And why wouldn't he be? She was a siren, a goddess, and he couldn't believe she existed on the planet at the same time at him. And when his desire had been met with true release that only she could give him - it was all he could do not to set himself on fire with this burning _need_ for her, to claim her as his.

He took a deep breathe and commanded himself to compartmentalise his mind. His great plans. Alya. Tom wanted both, he deserved both, but he wasn't going to get it unless he did it properly.

_Plan precisely, t_ _read carefully, you cannot lose her again._

. . .

He went towards the store room of the shop and stepped into the fireplace. Moments later, he emerged into the entrance hall of the Ministry. He wove through the crowd of officials arriving to work, dress shoes clacking on the black tiles.

"Riddle!" 

He wished he could pretend he did not hear that voice, that did not even address him with a _Mr._ Riddle. It was a filthy Muggle last name, but some manners within the Ministry was expected. But of course, the blonde git that was Willem Aquilla had always presumed he was chums with everyone. He turned with a practiced smile at the golden-haired Ravenclaw jogging to him. "Where's Alya?" Willem asked before he stopped, catching his breathe. 

"I believe she has plans to see you today," Tom said placidly. 

"Oh," Willem huffed, scratching his neck, spacing out like a bumbling idiot, suddenly without any reason to speak to Riddle for longer. "I see. Thank you for contacting me." 

"You're welcome," Tom made to leave, but the other man was not finished yet;

"Alya and I are very close." Willem stated abruptly, eyes sweeping over him. "And she's never mentioned you."

Tom merely stared at him, his hands tactfully clasped behind his back, as his wrist tendons had gone rigid. _'And what of it?'_ He wanted to snarl.

"I didn't know you were... well-acquainted with her," Willem went on, dubiously, a touch of hardness to his previously even-tempered tone.

Tom was filled with primitive, masculine satisfaction. Yes, they were ' _w_ _ell-acquainted'_ enough that Alya had pinned him to a door and knelt in front of him, taken his hardness in the wet, warmth of her perfect mouth and moaned while she did. 

He knew exactly the sort of look Aquilla gave; he was measuring him up, like he finally had a reason to now that Tom was involved with his best friend. Tom could overlook the audacity, even if it was annoying. Willem had been too much of a blind _idiot_ to notice Alya had a crush on him all of their school years. _Too bloody late, Aquilla. She forgave_ me, _she trusts_ me _with her darkest secrets. Not you. Never you._

"Yes, I suppose so," he remarked blithely, with a sly smile just to throw him off. "We're acquaintances." With that Tom left Willem to figure it out for himself. 

. . . 

He strolled through the twisting dirt paths of the catacombs, and halted at the third to last cell. The bars were made of bronze, little sun discs along their length. A woman with raven hair, hollowed eyes and gaunt features sat within. The bars were special, emitted a _Lumos Solem_ charm if the half-beast it caged in got too close.

"Vela."

She lifted her head and stared through strands of matted hair. Her brown skin had taken on a sickly grey hue. They looked very similar, but her mother's chin was sharper, nose a bit longer. "Who are you?" She asked, her accent definitely not of someone who'd lived in Britain. "They denied visitors." 

"Tom Riddle. I was with your daughter when we rescued you." 

Her brows drew together distraught. "Where is she?" 

"She'll be here tomorrow." It repulsed him to be within ten feet of her, he planned to get the conversation over and done with. "She intends to make an appeal and discuss your release into society." It was a nonsensical law passed decades ago that forbade wizardfolk from killing these leeches. They were a malignant cancer, and the world would be safer and better off without them. 

"She does?" 

Tom nodded and her eyebrows lifted with surprise. They were equally as expressive as Alya's. "I underestimated her," she muttered.

"Yes, you did," he grated. "People tend to underestimate her." 

Her eyes narrowed at him. He didn't like that it unnerved him, how the bloodshot sclera looked like two pools of blood. "Are you... with her?" 

"These are questions you should ask her," he replied, coolly. 

She gave a ponderous tilt of her head, scrutinising eyes sweeping over him. "It's a blur, but I remember you now."

What was it with everyone in Alya's life presuming they had any right to judge him? First that lake guardian, then her idiot of a best friend and now her half-creature mother? "Being the over-protective mother now?" He said in harsh tones. "It a bit too late for that. You almost killed her." 

The barb struck, her face drawn with guilt. "Yes. And I have to live with that. With what transpired between us before that, too."

He honestly did not give a fuck to listen to her despondent ramblings. "I don't have much time, Ms. Al-Parsi. Where do we find Argus Skarrson?"

"Shouldn't _Alya_ be asking me these questions?" She frowned with a derisive look. "Not the latest _errand_ boy she's rolling in bed with." 

A toxic mixture of jealousy and anger made his stomach roil. That was the last ounce of patience he had for the vampire. "The only reason you are _alive_ is because of my generosity," he hissed, almost spitting venom. "Because I went out of my way to help you, for her. I could easily take that privilege from you." 

"But you won't," she stated. "For the same reason you extended it. For her," she smirked knowingly. How dare she? This creature was not in the position to _afford_ to be mocking him, using his affection for her daughter against him. But that was bound to happen, wasn't it? Not solely in this case, but for their future. People would attempt to get to him through Alya. His sole weakness. He was bared to her, but also bared to others because of her. It was an unsettling notion that left his stomach queasy.

"But I do want my daughter to be safe," Vela went on, regaining her wits, just as Tom considered lighting her cell with a thousands suns to burn her alive. "Skarrson would have gone to Spain, it's a lucrative black market causeway. He would need to regroup, figure out his next move, if he's bold enough to try." 

"Thank you," he said, practically chewing on his words. "One more question. Why did Argus seek that spellbook? What's in it?" He was burning with the curiosity of this for the last few days, too distracted by Alya to ever ask her about it. 

She snorted humourlessly, staring off at the opposite wall, lost in a haze of memories and regrets. "The hunt for that wretched thing, was a cruel twist of fate." 

He scowled, he did not have the time for this. "Meaning?" 

"The prize I hunted after, I got it in the end. In the most perverted way, possible." 

"Could you be a bit more specific, Ms. Al-Parsi?" 

She angled her head to him, shuffling down the bench closer to the bars, staring with that perceptiveness he admired in her daughter, but reviled in her. He wanted to rear away, tasting bile on his tongue, yet he could not stop looking. _What must it be like?_ He wondered perversely. _To live off blood? To have so much poison in you that your magic is diminished to nothing?_ His mother had been magic-less towards the end of her life too. Tom and Alya had more in common than he could have ever imagined. 

"Does she know?" She murmured.

"Know what?" _You filthy parasitic half-beast._

"With what I am now. I am soulless," she leaned closer to the bars until he could see the tips of her fangs. "I can sense something...peculiar about you." 

His heart lurched into his throat. "And what is that?"

"As if you're not entirely...there," she murmured, gaze roving over him. "A fragment of what once was." 

With that, he did not care what it looked like, did not care for any decorum, he reared away in disgust and anger. His vision blurred with red, hand landing on his wand in his pocket. He should kill her, it would be the right thing to do, for him, for Alya. Tom wanted to roar at her. This was the beginnings of a threat, he could sense it. And how dare-how _dare_ she compare _him_ to her?! He was a warlock, magic made flesh! She survived on bags of donated blood in the shadows of night, quaking in fear of the sun!

"I think your hunger for blood makes your thoughts senseless. Just remember what I said, about your privilege," he snarled, unable to leash his rage anymore. "Supplies of human blood are scarce these days, and your appetite is a danger to our society. You would not want to end up beheaded like the werewolves, would you? Or worse, deprived of blood until you were an empty, shrivelled up shell."

"Perhaps." He cocked his head with a cruel smile. "Things could get so bad, that it would be a blessing to be executed and finally end your suffering." 

_"You?"_ She hissed. _"You_ are whom she chooses?" Vela glared at him, her eyes almost entirely black-red, it unnerved him to no end. He could not kill her, damn it, not yet anyway, Alya still needed to visit her. But he was not satisfied with leaving the conversation like that. Seething, he peered up and down the tunnels and drew his wand on her.

" _Obliviate."_

. . .

He was careful with the spell, ensuring whatever conclusions Vela made of him, were wiped clean. Alya only knew he'd popped into the Auror's office to make formal report about Argus, not this. He highly doubted the aurors had the man-power to conduct an international search for the smuggler. Truly, there was never a better time than this exact moment for another Wizard uprising. But with a humbling thought, he knew, he was not ready, and he had the luxury of time to be patient.

He passed a small bag of galleons to Mr. Trochar. The Society was starved for donations, it didn't take much to bribe his way into an early meeting with Vela, and the vampire's silence. While he detested the Skarrson's for the ordeal they put Alya through, he believed it was a necessary crucible for her, to come out stronger at the end of, with his aid. And perhaps-he would never share this with her-Skarrson had a novel idea; manipulating half-breeds. Their needs were far less complex than wizardkind. Animalistic. Easy to buy, too. _Promise of freedom and food in their belly._

_No._ Tom wanted to smack himself. _No. No. No._ He had _standards_ for crying out loud. He would never reduce himself to form _alliances_ with savage beasts. 

Vela's words continued to nag him. Not her suspicions on the state of his soul. He's met vampires before, not one had come after him because of whatever they sensed was 'lacking' within him. Not that they would ever attempt to accuse a wizard of meddling with the First Law of Magic. Vampires-all half-beasts-knew their place in society. _Behave or be killed, like the vermin they are._ Simple as that. What he was more concerned of was what they spoke of before that.

What could be a prize, gone wrong? Vela was a vampire. There was nothing prize-worthy about being unable to walk in sunlight, ageless, preying on human blood to survive-

He froze midstep. 

_Oh my God. Oh my God._

That spellbook has an immortality spell. 

* * *

**A/N; Voldy in the books associated with half-creatures during the Second Wizarding War, I believe Eg Fenrir Greyback. But I wanted to show that distinction between Voldy and Tom in their beliefs, because Tom really didn't like them, but as the decades wore on he just become more unhinged and didn't care for 'standards' anymore.** **What do you think Tom plans to do with this new realisation?**

**Anyway thanks for reading. I promise they will have sex soon lol**

**See you guys next time :) Please leave Kudos and comments so I know people are still into this story :)**


	21. Family

**ALYA**

She settled onto a couch in Willem's office at Transfiguration Today. Shutting her eyes, she let her heart dance before the real world could sink in; the fresh ache of her failure to save her mother, the new wand that told her she was not whom she thought she was. Loss and uncertainty greyed her day. But there was also gain. _Tom._

"Alya! Thank _God."_ Willem clambered into the office with an overstuffed briefcase. He enveloped her in a hug that nearly lifted her off the ground. _I used to collect these embraces like treasures._ There was something bittersweet about it too, to love him in a different way. "Are you all right? I saw Riddle a moment ago. I must admit it was surprising when he contacted me on your behalf." 

Heat crept to her cheeks. "I can explain that."

Willem's shoulders held stiffly. "You scared me. You really, really scared me. I mean, a letter?" He exclaimed. "That was how you wanted to say goodbye to me? A _letter?"_

"I know, I know," she rose her hands placatingly. Alya had a track record of giving her loved ones migraines. It ought to make her more careful, to spare their tender souls, the risk of losing them too great— but no matter how much they cared for her, she wasn’t careful with their hearts. _Or myself._

"Why wouldn't you tell me any of this before?" 

"He had my mother, Willem."

A notch formed between his brows. "Will they—is she...?" 

"The aurors will find Argus." She did not believe in his certainty after she gave a lengthy explanation of her mother's vampirisim. "How do you feel about your her? You don't speak much of her." 

To admit her sadness made her fear the walls would collapse with her melancholy. "We didn't leave one another on good terms the last time we properly spoke. But there is nothing I can do to change what happened to her." Alya was living in her little bubble. _To be fair, I was unconscious._ But Willem's pity, Tom's yawning absence, and her failure bulldozed her. The torrent of shame, tying her stomach into knots. She wanted to run from it, reinvent herself in a country where no one knew her shortcomings. But those were fools wishes. She could, however, do what Tom did. Guard herself. Hold herself together, even if the scaffolding was worn and tired. 

"I am returning to Ireland to speak to my uncle about her situation, make an appeal," she said, poised. "I have to help her in any way I can." 

"Care to explain your arm?" He gestured at the spindly vines peeking from her sleeve. Alya explained her injuries and Tom's help, choosing not to disclose the less noble aspects of the story. She was lying to her best friend, but she confessed her sins to Tom, and the burden was much lighter to carry. With Tom, she found it easy to remain true, to bare even the darkest parts of herself. Willem was different. Alya was precious to him, in the way one would admire and handle a crystal figurine.

"I am glad you finally mustered up some common sense to ask for help. Admittedly, I was taken aback by your closeness with him," said Willem, a bit guarded.

"It surprised me, too." At the same time it didn't.

"You always found him snobbish and a kiss-arse."

"Everyone in our society is a little bit up their own arses without realising it." Even Willem. Even her. She couldn't defend the kiss-arse comment, however, Tom was good at getting people to like him.

He remained dubious, "-but you never even spoke to him before. He was constantly surrounded by his group of 'loyal fans,' are they suddenly non-existent, now?" 

"I know what he was like, but everything is different with him. He's not what I expected. Frankly, I didn't expect him at all." One night, he was there, at her grandmother's wake, the moment she landed home. Moonlight brushing the angles of his face, beautiful and solemn in black, even with the wand he reached for, perceiving her a threat. She did not need to be fed doubts about Tom when she could conjure her own. _Why is he with me? Why am I with him? Am I the smartest woman he's ever met? The prettiest?_

"Can you just be happy that I like someone, and they like me back?" When she considered the vastness of the world, the billions of people on it, it was almost inconceivable how it occurred. To pass through the school halls for years, never acknowledging the person who would one day lay claim to your heart. 

"I'm sorry, I'm just trying to understood," Willem shook his head. "I only want the best for you, and I am happy for you. I do trust Riddle, he's one of the good ones." 

Alya smiled, almost wistfully. A childish part of her couldn't help but liken Tom to a prince. It was almost too good to be. 

"This situation with your mother-is that why you so were distant after Edinburgh? I had no idea of this mess you were in, I was so blind-" 

"Because I did not share it I was trying to face it on my own. Skarsson was a man from my past I had to contend with." 

"Why do you always insist on doing everything by yourself?" He grouched. But they both knew it was in her nature to do so. 

“Willem, I am trying to do less of that, but it's not easy. I am sorry, for making you worry, for leaving the way I did.” Alya held his elbows, like she did when she crashed into him, running through the Hogwarts. "Do you forgive me?" 

His shoulders eased, and he returned her hold with a soft smile. "That is without question." he said. "What will you do with this spellbook? Will you hand it over to the ministry?" 

Alya released him, something rough and angry clouding her mind. "No. It's mine." How dare he ask her to do that after everything she went through to obtain it? 

"Something that dangerous needs proper handling," Willem cautioned, choosing to ignore her heated response. "You risked your life for it." 

"Which is precisely why I have to keep it,” she retorted. “Willem—” _How do I make him understand?_ Alya scarcely understood it herself. “It chose me. Somehow I was able to overcome the barriers that prevented me from taking it in the first place, and proved myself.” The spellbook was within her bag, that instant. So much power within reach. All for her. She felt the stirrings of something awakening. Something she kept buried within her. A part of her she rarely reached into, because of fear, insecurity...

“’Proved yourself?’” He mused skeptically, “..to a book? Do you hear yourself?”

“Yes,” she gritted. “I know how it sounds—”

"It is at least a thousand years old. You don't know what kind of magic is in it. It could do more harm than good,” Willem said with more force than she ever thought he was capable of. It meant he was being dead-serious, he grasped her forearm. "If you cannot open that spellbook. You should give it to the Department of Mysteries,” Willem persisted. "I know what is on your mind, but please consider it. For me,” he added, reading her displeasure. Alya could not relax the tight band of her shoulders. That spellbook had caused more damage than it was probably worth, but there was more to it that she simply _had_ to uncover. "I don't trust that thing to bring your life anything good,” continued Willem. “I do not want to see you get hurt anymore than you already are." 

She sighed and nodded, if only to indulge him. _Best not to hurt him more than I already have._

. . . 

“I’ve had reports from Mr. Trochar of her progress, she is not a threat."

Her beleaguered uncle looked up from the report he was reading. More Centaur revolts. There was nothing glamorous about Ministry jobs. It was a lot of backstabbing, bureaucracy and _paperwork._

“Creation of new vampires is illegal,” he replied, in throaty accent that was like her beloved grandfather, although her uncle could never compare. Lycus' presence made people want to bow as if he were a king when he entered a room. Kelwyn was the second son, living in a shadow of his deceased older brother, and his sudden jump into politics from liquor merchant made everyone suspicious of him. But money and influence could move mountains. He gave a poorly contrived sigh of sympathy; “I know this is difficult for you to process Alya—”

They were discussing the life and death of her mother, not a poor grade on a Charm's assignment. “Then hunt down the wizard who did the crime! Why should she be punished for a condition she did not choose? Why should she be executed if she’s never killed a human?"

Alya never quarrelled with him. Her upbringing had been her grandparents responsibility, not his. But now, Kelwyn understood what it meant when his wife complained of his ‘deceitful, loud-mouth’ niece. “Consider how the public would perceive this. How would it look if a newborn vampire walked free in this day and age? She is a danger to society. Why can't you understand that?"

_You mean consider how it will damage_ your _image._ “She won’t be,” Alya protested. Kelwyn was gathering his papers, half-listening. Her anger caused poorly chosen words to spill forth; “why are you minister if you have no interest in peace between the half-creatures? You basically handed the Chouberts the Centaur land on a silver platter."

His grey eyes, the same as her father’s snapped to hers. “I will forgive your rudeness if you remember your place in this household.”

Alya could not recall the last time anyone spoke to her that way. Would she have eventually respected the status quo if she stayed? Found a way to live and navigate it as Guinevere did? _Probably not._ Bartering black market deals was easier than manoeuvring through shark infested waters of high-society.

“These political matters are too complex and are above you. You have no idea the uproar my department currently has to deal with.”

"I read the _Daily Prophet,_ it's not a big a secret." 

“Alya,” he flattened his palms on the desk. “I have never had an issue with you. Never. Your grandfather divined you one summer night. It was years since his visions were ever accurate or fruitful, but this was. He was determined to find you, Micah’s little girl." There was a hint of discontent there, a drop of green envy at his older brother. 

She blinked at him. “I didn’t know that.”

"You have frolicked across the globe shirking your duties to the the Moore name, tarnishing it, and I never said a word,” he stabbed the desk. "You couldn't even choose a respectable career path for a woman of your standing. You live glamorously, flitting from one country to the next, and it's obscene," he slashed his index through the air. "As the head of this house I could have demanded more. I could have demanded you marry-"

_"Marry?"_

"-And now you insult me so, for allowing your independence?”

Her chest burned, livid. Was she property to them? She didn't even know which insult to address first. The notion that curse-breaking was 'glamorous,' (and so what if she liked pretty clothes, too?) that she needed _anyone's_ permission to do as she pleased. At least she was safe from the marriage, her stomach turned at the thought of being forcibly married off. “Uncle—“

“Your mother’s fate is not solely my decision,” Kelwyn cut her off again, standing. Badger skittered inside to polish his master's shoes. “There is a panel of judges, to convince too.”

“I am sorry for what I said, it was...rude of me. But I am not asking for much. She’s my mother." Spitting out an apology was akin to chewing iron nails. "I know you have sway. You wouldn’t have made it to your position if you didn’t. Please." 

Her uncle sighed tiredly, propping his hat on. “I will consider it.” Kelwyn took a handful of Floo powder and stalked to the fireplace. Considerations were not promises or assurances. 

. . . 

_Why would I expect Kelwyn understand?_ Half-creatures were the roaches beneath their boots. Her mother lost all credibility, value, standing in society the moment that venom poisoned her blood. _So easily our kind turn their backs on their own._ Alya fought for Vela because it was her fault. Because in Alya’s time of need, a angst-ridden teenager, her mother had been there for her, even if she was not perfect.

And— it was her mother.

Without Tom or Willem to blanket over her disquiet. Her failure was fresh and raw. _She lost her magic, because of me._ Alya could not fathom waking up one day, power bleeding from her soul, her magical life force snuffed out. A squib forever. _I would rather die._ Being a squib would have been a kinder fate than what Vela was dealt.

Footsteps whispered in the carpeted hall, she spotted her cousin outside. “Guinevere.” Her cousin didn’t stop. She had not reacted kindly to Alya’s return. Their conversation ended in shouted whispers about mistrust and slammed doors. This was worse than the cattiness when they were teenagers. Alya strode faster to catch her. "Can we talk, please?”

"About what?" Guinevere's skirts whirled around, blue eyes flashing. "Your next adventurous expedition? How exciting it'll be? Or shall we discuss your funeral arrangements. What dress would you like to wear, coz? Navy blue? Lilac? I can't have you looking like a rat on your deathbed."

The barbs had come sudden and sharp that Alya was speechless. "Oh finally," Guinevere drawled, "not a word of argument from you. And here I thought you needed to die before I got some peace and quiet around here. I can't believe you used that information I gave about our heritage to nearly get yourself killed." 

"I know you're still mad at me," said Alya evenly, grinding her teeth, "but this isn't fair." 

"I'll tell you what isn't fair." She surprised her with her vehemence. “Willem told me what Travers did in Diagon Alley, that Victor was involved too. _Victor-_ my future brother-in-law. What else have you hid from me?” Hurt broke Guinevere’s exhale. “I am to marry into that family. Did you think I would not care that you were hurt, by them?"

“I warned you about that family, and you said yes anyway," Alya pointed out failing to keep the sharpness from her tone. Guinevere gasped, affronted. That wasn't fair, her cousin didn't have much of a choice in her wedding match. "Besides, Victor didn’t do anything, he got dragged into it. It was your dear friend Louisa's idea."

“I didn’t realize how vindictive she was, or Evander." Guinevere murmured in disquiet. The world was very, very different from when they were thirteen. “They actually _hurt_ you. I honestly don't know whom to trust anymore. And it hurts that you think I would not take your side." 

Guinevere was a Ravenclaw. How would she know the malevolence members of Alya’s House were capable of? _What I am capable of?_ How darkness was a lull in her ear. How Tom was the only one who didn’t shrink from her, who saw her as powerful and not powerless. If this is how Guinevere reacted to one of her catty friends setting blood curse on Alya-- _How will she react if she knew I murdered a man?_

Alya shook away her intrusive thoughts. "I never ask anything from you, but I am now. I need your help. Please speak to Kelwyn about my mother." 

Guinevere gave a disbelieving scoff. “Nowyou ask for help? Now? Willem may have let your behaviour slide, but we are family, Alya, you can't do what you did to family." 

"I did what I did for my family."

"Right," Guinevere crossed her arms, glaring. "For a woman who didn't even want you when you were born." 

_Ouch._ "You have no idea what it's like growing up not knowing half of who you are," she retorted. "When I finally did, can you blame me for wanting to be free of this place and find out?"

"I know growing up here was difficult, but I was here, too. I know how hard it is." Alya never heard her rant like this, Guinevere had always taken their pureblood lessons without complaint, and excelled in them. "You think I liked it when grandma smacked by chin when I didn't drink tea with perfect bloody posture? Or my mother constantly yelling at me that I need to eat more to fill out my hips to bear children? Or-or how my father ignores my recommendations for the distillery while he plays politician and forgets to raise Oisin? Don't you think I'm sick of it, too? You left and I had to shoulder all of it!"

It seemed they were not discussing the same thing. "What are you trying to say? Are you trying to blame me, or what?"

"Life here isn't it perfect," Guinevere exhaled to calm herself. "But it's safe and we were raised to navigate it. Yet you choose insanity over what we have here?" She gestured around at the manor's resplendent hall, it's tapestries and Gothic arches, "this. All this? That's what I never understood about why you left." 

She clenched her jaw. "Come on. None of it was ever mine." 

"It is, Alya. You will always be a Moore. Is that not enough for you?"

'Enough' sounded like a box Alya had to squeeze herself into. "We are on different paths, do you think I would be happy with any of that? I wouldn't. And that's the way it is," Alya shrugged. "I needed to protect you from that part of my life, I'm sorry." 

“When I thought you were dead-" Guinevere clutched her tummy, contained herself. It was unladylike to lose one’s temper, to wail. "We lost grandmother months ago. Even though you are infuriating and stubborn, I do not want to bury another member of my family." 

Alya was careful with her movements, nodding slowly, too afraid to say anything that would chase them into silence forever. _Am I pointlessly cruel?_ _Hurting the people who love me?_ When she tried to take her elbow, she withdrew, making a hasty excuse about wedding preparations and left.

. . . 

She wandered into the drawing room, the portrait of Constantina atop the mantle, pacing in it's frame. _Did I inherit this restless energy from her?_ She stopped when Alya approached.

"Your mind was so broken when I ventured inside it. The walls collapsing with sand," said Alya to the portrait. "Do you know how you died?"

Portrait Constantina's sharp hazel eyes pierced the canvas, features drawn downwards. "Your grandfather saw it. I made him tell me. I pretended not to believe in it." She shook her head and sat in the version of the armchair. "But that was a lie. It hovered over the last years we had together like a noose. He didn't expect to die when he did. Moore men live until two-hundred and two. He was far too young. So was I." Constantina's eyes fixed her with a perceptive regard. People often presumed she gained the skill from her mother. But it was from Constantina, without a doubt.

"I know I left you something, when I was painted. I was always mistrustful of others, even your grandfather, but I trusted you. I don't remember what it was," she muttered, with some distress. 

"I received it," Alya told her. "I found what you wanted me to find. But there was no answers there, only more questions." 

"I see." Constantina hummed, folding her hands in her lap and sighed. "Perhaps you won't turn out to be so disappointing."

"Why did you ever believe I would be?" Hurt clawed through her chest. "Did it change when I was gone? Fondness for me growing in my absence?"

She peered down at her sadly. That was when Alya knew that this could never be the real Constantina. She would not have shown her such a wide range of emotions. "I am only a figment of myself, Alya. I don't have the answers."

_Did you love me?_ But she was afraid if she asked, there would be no answer either.

She exhaled and turned from the painting. Alya spotted Lacerta ordering Badger to carry an ornate vase at least ten times his weight and size. Her aunt lavishly spent Moore galleons on various art and historical pieces. Alya trusted her aunt only as far as she could throw her. Returning to the Moore seat reminded her of her grandmother's final messages. That Lacerta fooled the entire family into believing Guinevere and Oisin were actually Kelwyn's.

Why didn't Argus go after Kelwyn instead of her to track the spellbook? He would have been easier to manipulate. These were all questions she had to ask her mother. As for Lacerta. Alya had a plan. But it required snooping for more secrets. She waited a few minutes then called for the house-elf. He popped in front of her, already dipping into a bow.

"Miss Alya." 

"You had great fondness for my grandmother didn't you?" She asked the top of his wrinkled head. 

He lifted his eyes to her. She had been an annoying, messy little girl. But she was the only Moore he ever dared to look in the eye. "Indeed." 

"And how do you like being under Madam Lacerta, as lady of the house?" 

"I serve the Moore family," he touched a spindly hand to his raggedy shift, bowing his head obediently. "It is not Badger's place to have an opinion." 

"My aunt didn't like Madam Constantina," Alya lowered her voice. "I know it's terrible to accuse her of anything, but I know she hiding something, something awful. Lies, that could devastate this family. Maybe you know what it is, and you wouldn't want to witness the fall of the Moores." Her eyes bored into him and she saw the flicker of panic across his large eyes. "You know, don't you? Come on Badger," Alya crouched down until their heads were level. "There must be something you want," she asked, more gently. "Justice for Constantina? Freedom? 

Her blinked at her baffled. "F-freedom?" He croaked. Perhaps that was not the right thing to presume. Some slaves grew to like their chains. 

"I can grant it to you, if you wish," said Alya. "But I need you to be my spy."

* * *

**TOM**

"Riddle. You have post." A snow-white owl hooted atop a parcel on the cashier desk. Borgin's tone was curt. His boss was testing his patience lately. 

He brought the parcel to his office, face controlled, while his hands palpitated with excitement. After a few tests to ensure it was not explosive or tampered with dark magic he ripped it open. Within was a copy of _Daviola and Belacosta’s: The Four Elements._ A new edition. Dark magic texts with exquisite cover design were hard to acquire. He could only imagine the strings Alya to pull to obtain a copy as lavish as this. _For me_. It was bound with royal blue leather. Opal, ochre, crystal and jade stones were carved in runic elemental symbols to represent the four elements. He carefully tore the wax seal of the accompanying letter.

_Dear Tom,_

_I realize I never established a correspondence with you, and I would like to, should future travels take me away again. I hope you like my gift._ _I can’t wait to feel our magic collide and transform the Earth. I want to learn it all with you._

_I am working on unlocking the spellbook. I know I must. As far as I know on the contents; the most valuable is an invulnerability spell. Argus and my mother presumed it was immortality. They were painfully wrong. I am simply glad it did not land in undeserving hands after the hardship we went through. I am still in the midst of tracking Argus, but I am safe and well._

_I will be in London tomorrow. Free your evening, I want to see you._

_And no, I shall not apologize for being so fierce. Sometimes I think I ought to be less so, but being gentler with you would be pretense and you know I am never good with that._

_Yours,_

_Alya_

_P. S. Virgo is just shy of the moon tonight. Will you gaze at her with me, from where you rest your head? Tell me what you divine. Let's call a truce and agree Callilipus is better. You know it is._

Tom wished he read it slower instead of devouring it in less than a minute. He could hear Alya’s voice reading to him, see her winking at the specific words. He inhaled the parchment; her perfume had been spelled to stick to it. A tease. One word echoed in his head, drumming at time with his heartbeat: _yours, yours, yours._

_Come on._ It was just a letter. His classmates got long letters from family at least once a week, mothers and younger siblings regaling their mundane day-to-day. Tom never understood the appeal of it. Until now. Nobody had ever missed with him such adoration, such fervor.

He inhaled again. But his lungs were constrained as if bound by chains- a letter was not nearly enough for him. He was immortal, but suddenly she was as essential as air. Her promise of dragging him into an alley to do sinful things made Tom turn his head at the ring of feminine laughter. But it was never her, no matter how much he wished it were.

Her departure to Ireland wasn’t unreasonable; he just wished it was not for so long (four days felt rather long in his mind). Was this what it was like to keep someone happy? By making yourself miserable? Tom was in London with open arms, more than willing to be everything she needed. What use of a dysfunctional family did she have? Could they do the same as he’d done for her? Or a witless best friend who constantly doubted her, whom she did not trust with her darkest secret? Alya was more than their small minds could even begin to comprehend. 

The Gaunt ring pulsed faintly in time with his heartbeat. He had to be cautious too. Even though he didn’t want to be. The less guarded moments with her had been the most terrifying, the most euphoric. He’d been extremely unprepared when she pleasured him with her mouth. It had been utterly perfect. Tom could get lost in the bliss of the memory of it for hours. But what of his scars? What answer would he give?

_What lie?_

His existence was defined by a burning need for her. It filled him with a fear and craving he did not understand. A sort of dependency in danger of growing into an addiction.

_Your mind is also your power. You can control it, and you will. Don't be so weak._

It was a losing race.

He would go home and write her sentences into his diary, about the spellbook she planned to unlock. A book that held the secrets of life. Did she plan to unlock it for curiosity’s sake? Or actually make use of it? He hoped it was the latter. That the future she desired for herself could align so perfectly with his. Everyday he revisited the moments in the cave; tendrils of fire caressing her reverently, tangling in her hair, yielding to her, like Tom did no matter how many times he tried to remain upright. The thestrals, only they could see. Tom was certain their souls were made of the same stars. Twin flames holding dominion over the blackest of nights. 

He simply could not wait to see her, discover what she planned, convince her that the world was hers to take, and that everything against them, even time itself, would become inconsequential. 

* * *

**ALYA**

Light through the windows striped the darkened hall of the slumbering castle. "We're not allowed up there," she murmured in a fit of giggles. Tom tugged her hand to him. When the light hit, his skin was luminescent like a ghost's, then darkness would bleed into him, then moon again. "Who cares? We're not students anymore," he grinned. Her heart jumping at the fever of committing mischief with him.

They hurried up the winding staircase to the Astronomy tower, the wind and sky enclosing them. He guided her to the marble balustrade and tilted his head up to the cosmos. The stars glimmered like scattered crystals across a blanket of night. The cold air was crisp, sharp in her lungs. 

Tom wrapped his arm around her shoulders and held her against the warm expanse of his chest. They fit into one another perfectly. Alya pressed her chin into his sternum, canted her head up, his lightless eyes stared soft and wishful. As she looked at him, she wondered if this was what he wanted, to come back to Hogwarts, his true home. It would make him happy. Tom Riddle deserved to be happy, she decided.

"Tom," she whispered. "What do you want?" 

"Everything." And somehow, she knew the real Tom would answer the same. 

_"Everything..."_

Most of the dream faded from her mind when she woke, but in her heart, she felt the sweetness of it distill and fall. While her dreams of him were pleasant, there were still small anxieties over their courtship. _Is it a courtship?_ Could something as intense as what they had be defined by a societal term? Courtships in their world meant quick engagements and then straight to the altar. Her stomach clenched at that far-fetched notion of marriage. _To Tom._

Alya readied for the day and several hours later was seated in the drawing room studying the spellbook. She kept it wrapped in a plush velvet clothe. The last thing she wanted was Oisin touching it by mistake and burning to a crisp. At first she hesitated to hold it, but when she did, Alya was instantly filled with a sense of peace, lulling any disquiet she might've felt. Guinevere was inside the drawing room too, but pointedly ignoring her while having a purposefully loud conversation with the wedding planner from London. 

When Alya got bored of the spellbook-she was not making progress, and it was impossible for her to sit still for long- she practiced spells. _"Avis blanche,"_ a spurt of white feathers burst from her wand tip instead of a flock of doves. The small commotion earned her a glare from her cousin. Alya returned the glare, whilst feeling deflated. The new wand remained resistant to cooperation and temperamental. Alya missed the power she wielded in the mysterious cave. When she could command her emotions to work for her instead of wandless magic taking the lead. _Pure luck. That's what it was_. 

Tom must have received her missive by now. Were her words too presumptuous? Alya kept it teasing and wry, not wanting to scare him off with the magnitude of her romantic feelings. She wanted to banish this insecurity that she was another girl who fell for his charms.

No. It was real with him. She knew it was.

A pair of owls swooped in from the open balcony, a large parcel attached between them, drawing Alya and Guinevere's attention. Heart pounding, squeezed tight in it's crevice in her chest, she ran to them, without a drop of dignity. Within was a floral bouquet four times the size of her head. Irises, lilies, and pink roses, emitting a light floral fragrance in the room. They were tasteful and lovely. Exactly what she would select for herself. 

"That's from Tom?" Exclaimed Guinevere, bending to smell a bloom. 

“There’s no letter,” Alya muttered, after admiring it's beauty for a minute. It was a sweet gesture but she yearned for his thoughts, to know how he was. But when she touched a single rose, several of the petals burst like tiny fireworks, fluttering onto the table; letters formed words, words formed sentences in Tom’s elegant script. Her mouth dropped open as the petals transfigured into solid pale pink parchment, with his reply. 

_Dear Alya,_

_Letter correspondence is not my forte. I would much prefer to share my thoughts with you in person, listen to you laugh and argue with me right then and there. Silence that infuriating mouth of yours with a kiss if I had to._

_But there is nothing I won't indulge in, when it comes to you._

_Please let me know of whatever help you need with the spellbook, I am at your disposal. I think Morgana Le Fey is an essential component._

_My evening is yours. They always are. My spirit is restless without your presence, a howling pain that will never cease until you are in my arms again. I patiently await your return._

_Yours truly,_

_Tom_

_P.S. Is that what you call a truce? How rude. Even if I were to believe that folly, your competitiveness would never let that stick. I used Aganice. I saw good things; abundance and adventure, surely you must agree with me, just this once._

Alya was smiling so hard her cheeks were sore. He clearly had no qualms expressing himself like she did. She imagined him lying in bed unable to sleep without her, his head tipping against the headboard of the bed, his hand taking care of his unfulfilled desire for her. Would he be controlled and stop himself from doing it, or would he give in?

“I did not think he was capable of such romantic gestures.” Guinevere gushed, momentarily forgetting their argument. Her eyes slid to Alya, a little more gentle than they were yesterday. She hoped this was the first shoots of forgiveness. "You turn up to Atheneum on his arm, everyone is going to be so jealous of you." 

“Ah yes,” she griped, “as if the opinions of London pureblood society matter a lick to me.” But internally, she was unashamedly, secretly pleased with her lot. 

_Let them be jealous._

* * *

**A/N: Thank you, so sorry for the long one. I promise they will be reunited next chapter. It was important for me to settle some of Alya's other relationships. I do not have a beta-reader, mistakes are mine. Please leave kudos and comments :)**


	22. The Last Person Who Remembered You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day :)

**ALYA**

"Leaving already?" Asked Guinevere, strolling into her bedroom. She nodded, her clothes neatly folding themselves into her travel trunk, beside a collection of books and Tom's bouquet, alive and as fresh as it was yesterday. "You're packing that?" Guinevere pointed at a stripey blouse, scrunching her nose. "You have plans to go out looking like a Peppermint Toad?" 

Alya snorted, tossing a scarf at her face. Then on a threw her arms around her. "I didn't know you were such an avid hugger, coz," snarked Guinevere. She was not one for sentiment but indulged her, returning it. "I always have been," Alya murmured and now she had a reason to hug her. "Thank you for your help with Kelwyn."

"I understand that you were only trying to do the right thing for your mother," said Guinevere as they let go. 

"But I didn't though." The council would not sentence Vela to death but her life would never be the same ever again. 

"You did what you could. All that matters to me is that you're alive." Unspoken exchanges could speak volumes. Alya's smile was a repeated sorry. Guinevere's hand pressing into her forearm and soft eyes said _I forgive you_.

“I am not associating myself with Louisa or Alessa anymore," added her cousin. "They're not good people. I can't change the fact that I will have to speak with them on occasion but they could never be my true friends." 

Alya had the inclination to hug her again. "I know it's not easy, you've known them for years." Guinevere's entire life revolved around being in the right social circles, to reject them for her, was a huge step away from the norm. "I really do respect you for being so perfect, so I never had to be."

"It's much harder than it looks," Guinevere smiled tightly. They sat on the bed and spoke a little about the wedding until she spotted the spellbook on the bed. "Still tinkering with that?"

Alya nodded, grateful her cousin was not deterring her from uncovering its secrets the way Willem did. "Perhaps the magic that binds it is older," suggested Guinevere. "Less sophisticated, like ceremonial magic." 

She smirked mischievously. "There's an idea." 

"I hope you're not planning on prancing around a fire to summon Satan,” Guinevere frowned. "How medieval that would be. Anyway--people noticed you and Tom in Diagon Alley, you know, very public." 

How obtuse of her to presume they could continue under society's keen eye. "Ah, then the rumour mill must be turning. Give me latest updates, and only the most scathing, and bitchiest of remarks-I want to rip that bandage off, first." 

"Are you sure?" Guinevere asked, and continued at her affirmative nod. "Well... they say Tom has lowered his standards to be with you."

That barb hit a little too close. She was starting to rethink her demand to hear the gossip. Their grandmother had hammered into their heads that society's perception of them meant everything. Alya considered herself too old and jaded for gossip, but it was a toxic, immature habit that died hard. "Why is that nonsense exactly something Priscilla Parkinson would say?" 

"Because it was," Guinevere rolled her eyes. "She talks a lot about 'high standards,' then runs back to Mulciber, despite the fact he's cheated on her at least a dozen times."

Alya winced, that was quite tragic.

"The other one -which I think is hilarious-is that you used a love potion to get him to be with you." 

"A love potion? How unoriginal." This time she laughed and Guinevere joined in. "I know, I know," Alya leapt up. "Tell them I pranced around a fire and made a deal with the Devil to gift him to me." 

Her cousin snorted, "they would never believe that." Her expression grew hesitant. "There's another one, I think it must've been started by someone who isn't close to Riddle." Guinevere cleared her throat uncomfortably. "They said, well--they said you're only with him out of charity, because he's poor and has a Muggle last name." 

Alya's smile fell and mood soured, her thoughts jumped somewhere rough and angry. "Then obviously they're jealous of him," she stated with a touch of darkness. _Who was it?_ _Were they dropped as a baby? Don't they know how utterly brilliant he is?_ But she shut her mouth. She had used that exact insult against him once and regretted how harsh she'd been. 

"Will you be all right in London?" Asked Guinevere, diverting the conversation as Alya finished packing. 

"I can handle it." Alya hoped her confidence would last the rest of the day. There was great change coming in her life, she could feel it in her bones. She just didn't know if it was good or bad. 

. . . 

Candles in the wall sconces casted strips of light on the packed earth. Trochar followed her; tall, pale, his footsteps whisper-soft. Anywhere between fifty to two-hundred and fifty years old. _Do you feel it?_ She wanted to ask him. _The hollow where your soul once rested?_ One did not need to be soulless to be a monster, but to be without it vilified the half-creatures even more. He briefed her on the state of her mother’s vampirism. Vela's bloodlust was controlled, but she could not stand the smell of blood from open wounds. There was long way to go, but it was a significant improvement. 

“And no one else has been to visit her?” Alya asked.

“No one else."

Maintaining the International Statue of Secrecy was the only reason creatures and wizardfolk lived alongside one another in harmony (or, tried to). Now Alya was related to one. They slowed and Trochar indicated the cell with his chin. “You have five minutes." He reminded her. Kelwyn had not granted her much leeway in visitation. 

Vela looked the same but paler. Her eyes were bloodshot, gaunt cheeks sharp, like crevices of a cliff. Their skin used to be the same, a warm brown. Would anyone recognise them as relations, now?

"Mother."

“Alya. You came. I waited for days.”

“I wasn’t allowed to see you, until now." She saw the fangs flash and fought a shudder. "Are you well?”

“As well as I can be," Vela replied stoically. 

"Mr. Trochar, please stop eavesdropping." 

He emerged from the shadows, a flicker of emotion crossed his marble-like features, "I was not-"

"Lift the bars."

Trochar gaze flitted between them. "Ms. Moore that would be-" 

"Open them. I want to have a civilised conversation with my mother, not a caged animal." 

"That is unwise, her condition is unstable-" 

"The stability of her condition is dependent on you and your capability to train a newborn vampire, as my uncle would have instructed. Any shortcomings on that front, reflects on your capabilities to head the society, does is not?" She cut him off. "Besides, I'm not bleeding anywhere," her eyes slid to her mother. "And my mother meets the council tomorrow, she would be careful.” It was a dangerous bet if her new wand decided not to listen. But Alya believed her mother was no longer the feral half-creature that attacked her. She trusted her instincts. 

He exhaled. It was the first in fifteen minutes of his presence that she heard him breathe. _Half-dead lungs don't need oxygen._ "Very well.” He inserted a key into a lock on the wall and the bars lifted. Alya ventured inside and sat down on the bench across from Vela. 

“Thank you for reminding me of the magic you have, that I no longer do.” Vela eyed her witheringly. 

“Not even two minutes in each other's presence and we’re at one another’s throat—figuratively I mean." At her mother's grimace, Alya wondered why she could never stop being such an asshole. “I am sorry, that was indelicate of me." 

“You’ve never been one for delicacy," replied Vela. “You have always enjoyed humbling people when it was not your place to." If there was ever a way to make the conversation awkward it was to start it with an argument. 

"I didn't mean to attack you, Alya." Her mother drew her shoulders tighter with contrition. 

"I know," Alya said soberly, a lukewarm apology was all she would get. “I made the arrangements; Mr. Trochar will continue helping you, and hopefully you will improve by the end of the month, I think you will. I can’t do much for the state of your lodgings, but you won’t face execution.”

"Thank you." Their eyes met, with an undercurrent of animosity that'd built on for years.

“In exchange, I want answers. There's a great many things you have kept from me that must come to light. Why not Kelwyn, for Merlin's spellbook? Why me?" 

"The spells within are Merlin's, but it is bound by Morgana's magic." It was astonishing how her mother lips had been sewn shut for years. The seams ripped when she had no choice but to divulge the truth. "It was punishment for Merlin's defilement of her. It was kept for a descendant that is worthy and uncorrupted," Vela explained. "What happened in that cave?" 

Alya petulantly didn't want to tell her at first. But her mother was in a magical sleep for a month, she ought to know what transpired. She explained the pocket realm, the cave, and the wildfire. Her mother could not stop the awe that bubbled over her features. Did Vela not care that she could have died? The dangerous lengths she went through for her? The bullying and the manipulation by Argus? The only reason that man was after them was because Vela allowed Magnus into their lives in the first place.

"If I unlock the book, will I release something that ought to stay put?" 

"No. It is filled with knowledge lost to generations." 

"Knowledge is power. It can corrupt too. Corrupt love. It makes me wonder if you ever loved my father." 

Vela’s face pinched together. “What are your plans for it?"

“No. I am still asking the questions, here," Alya retorted, earning her a glare. "Why did you hide your marriage to him from me? Oh yes, I know about that. My grandmother told me what you told her, you clearly did it for the sake of spiting an old woman with a foot in the grave. What happened to him?" She demanded. "Do not deny me the truth." She could not handle any more lies, even ones by omission. 

Vela steeled her shoulders, clenched her jaw. She looked as if she prepared to undergo a hideous task. “I met your father during his Grand Tour. And we fell in love, very fast. It was the kind of love that was all-consuming.”

“And when did you realise he was incapable of getting you what you wanted? That forsaken book?" It fell together didn't it? That the only reason a woman like Vela would be interested in a man like her father was because of what he could do to feed her ambition. 

Years of anger and heartbreak, bled across Vela's features. "Your father was not as good and dependable as you thought he was.”

In the stories her grandparents shared, Micah was a leader; clever, well-mannered, and even-tempered. Constantina's favourite. Alya had to compete against his ghost. “That's not true. You manipulated him into marrying you. Forced him to follow you, my grandma told me-"

"Of course you believe that," Vela interjected. "Your grandparents would have fed you those lies to make me the villainess, the seductress who stole their precious son from them. He was perfect to them, and he was perfect to me, too, once. Until he wasn't. He started to pull away from me. There was no magic keeping him, nothing but my prayers. Prayers to the Gods for a child, for I thought it would keep us together. When I fell pregnant, he took the honourable route and we married. But he remained doubtful and he wanted to leave me," Vela's lips slanted bitterly.

“The love I thought we had was not enough to overcome his duty. He didn't consider the marriage to be true, even though he'd agreed to it. And your grandparents were staunch on believing he was unmarried to preserve his reputation for future matches. He still wanted you, because children belong to the husband, you see." Vela glowered. "He claimed you would be better off with them. Like I was some brood mare to make heirs for your purity-crazed family."

Alya's insides were as hollow as a fresh grave listening to the reasons for her existence without any falsehoods. “They said he died of a lung fever. Is that true?”

“It was infection. But not in that way. I made my mission, his. He wanted that spellbook too. He claimed he was the rightful heir, that he deserved it. The day he left me, he sought it. But he was not worthy and he burned. He returned to me, barely alive, but the wounds from the dark magic could not be healed. You were born and I was alone. You wouldn't stop wailing and I felt as if a pit had opened beneath my feet and swallowed me whole." 

The story of her mother's post-partum depression always stung, no matter how many times she heard it, despite it being unfair to blame her mother for a condition she could not control. But melded with the other revelations, it felt as if the walls of the cell closing in on her. "So what am I, to you? A curse? A burden? I trusted you. I threw myself into harms way countless times for you, when you would never have done the same for me. Your own flesh and blood." 

Vela couldn't meet her eyes. “I did come to love you in a way."

_But not in the way that matters to me._ The jagged edges of her pain sliced through her stomach. This was the truth of it. That her mother's affections for her were not boundless, had limits. What a pitiful consolation prize. 

"You were right," continued Vela. "When you came to me you were not a child, but a girl in the first blush of womanhood. You were fierce in your thoughts and opinions. I couldn't start over with you, I had to work with whom I got. The way you looked at Magnus with such blankness and then burning the Skarsson home down. It terrified me." 

“I had nothing to do with the latter. But you don’t believe me." Somehow her heart could still take it, the insult, the mistrust. Fury churned through her blood, numbing her pain.

“I’ve had time to think. And I know this animosity between us may never go away. But as someone who is living in the consequences of my actions, I implore you to leave that spell book alone.”

Alya was starting to believe that what they said about vampires was accurate. They were soulless parasites. _“_ Why?" She demanded. "Because you couldn’t have it? Because it is mine, by right?" 

"You sound just like him," Vela glowered, pitilessly. "Your father."

God. No matter what she did, she would be compared to him.

"What I meant was- I have no use of it, anymore. I merely want to warn you. It possesses great power. Spells crafted by Myrddin Emrys, Merlin himself. And you said it yourself, power can corrupt.” Vela gaze was red and apathetic. “Without a soul, there is a strange emptiness inside of me. The lack of it, makes me see the souls of others. It is some vampire instinct that I can barely explain. I fear for your soul, Alya, darkness hovers over you, inside of you. If I could have been a better mother, loved you the way you deserved, perhaps I could have prevented it. But I couldn't. It is up to you." 

“I am not the monster here, mother," Alya lashed out. But Vela didn't flinch, didn't move a muscle. 

"There are monsters residing in all of us, my dear." 

She came here wanting answers and forgiveness. Not this. To learn that she was a pawn to both of her parents. To her mother; a way to keep her father loyal. To her father; a baby he wanted to snatch away to ruin her mother. Both master manipulators in their own right. Alya was a fly in the gossamer web of lies she was fed through the decades. Part of her wanted to cry, but she tucked it away into a tiny vial of pain, weakness would not do. Not in front woman who had never been capable of comfort or kind words. Trochar appeared at the cell entrance, tapping his watch. 

"Very well, then live with your consequences mother, and I will live with mine. Thank you for clarifying everything for me." She stepped to leave, sadness tugging at her heart. "It'll be a lonely couple of hundred years without sunlight, won't it?" 

* * *

**TOM**

"The goals of the cause has been met favourably by Karkakoff," informed Leon Rosier. "I took initiative and suggested he mobilise his network of spies to recruit loyalists in Bulgaria, Romania and Turkey." 

Tom had told Karkaroff he would receive word from his 'master' after Tom saved his life, and he did. From his left corner he saw Ulric shaking his head. He found value in listening and evaluation of his followers opinions. "You don't agree Mulciber?" 

"While I admire Leon's forward thinking-- may I share my opinion on this my lord?"

Leon stared, annoyed at Ulric whom continued at Tom's nod. "My lord, several of the Romanians meddle in the politics of the Muggle government, taking advantage of this newly-established 'Stalinism.' They will not be easily swayed to join a cause that would reduce the tax-paying and labour population. We should re-focus our efforts on recruiting those who are shunned by our own British community because of the Statute." 

Leon Rosier made a scoffing noise. "Something to add?" Ulric glared at him. The pair had familial rivalry that spanned generations, but no one could recall the instigating insult was. They were long overdue for a public spat. A headache thudded behind Tom's eyes, he was impatient to depart.

"You disagree with my idea because your father relies on filthy Muggle coin too. And we all know it," sneered Leon. "Quite the conflict of interest isn't it?" 

"Watch it Leon," Ulric warned. "While you still have a decent face your bride won't cry at."

Leon immediately drew his wand, forcing Mulciber to arm himself, too. "How dare you speak ill of-!"

_"Enough."_

A wall of fire sliced through the black marble dining table, painting the ceilings and walls in strokes of blue. Everyone silenced into submission. Tom had half a mind to turn Malfoy mansion into crumbling ashes. With a close of his fist, the inferno swiftly disappeared, the marble unburnt. Tom's eyes roved sharply over the pair. Bickering was the downfall of progress and a waste of his time. "Conduct yourselves in a manner worthy of your ancestors, gentleman." 

They humbly bowed their heads and mumbled apologies. Tom exhaled to collect himself and think. The dozen assembled waited with bated breathe for him to continue. He could hold them there for hours, if he wished; their puny minds racing, hearts palpitating in a nauseating combination of fear and excitement. They often expected swift and great things from their lord--stirring speeches, roaring condemnation, wise analyses. 

"We mustn't look down on our fiscally-minded peers for taking advantage of the hierarchy. Muggles are gullible; work-horses and cattle tend to be." 

His followers liked to be reminded they were 'better.' There was a round of snickers and mumbles of fevered agreement; 'yes my lord,' 'very wise my lord' 'filthy Muggles.'

"Rosier, advise the Romanians that by joining our cause, they won't have to survive within the constraints of Muggle politics. Those with magic will reign supreme. Not even Stalin would deter them." 

_Me._

A few table knocks and mighty fists struck the air, but judging by the mystified expressions, not everyone knew whom 'Stalin' was. _T_ _hey are roused so easily, bleating like sheep themselves._ Tom made it a point to be aware of Muggle politics in the region. It wasn't often intentional, he was forced to grow up amidst the Second World War, _but you need to know an enemy before you conquer them._

"Mulciber, your suggestion was innovative. Something we need more of." A nod from their lord was favourable. But verbal praise was akin to a clap on the back. Ulric suppressed a smug smile.  "And be careful with your words, Rosier," said Tom, the other man freezing beneath his hard stare. "Or you'll have one less eye, and match your brother. Merlin knows you lack the wit and personality to keep your future wife interested." 

Leon paled, and Tom allowed the mocking laughs to circle the room. Romulus Lestrange apparated in, garnering the room's attention. He had tasked Lestrange to search for Skarsson. 

"D-Deepest apologies for my lateness, my lord. I-I was held up at the French estate-" He bowed his head and kept it low, giving a long-winded excuse hoping to abate Tom's fury--but he was only worsening it.

"I see no point granting you an audience when you stare at the shadows clinging to your feet, rather than address me properly."

"...my lord?" Romulus squeaked, looking up. Tom was eager to leave, anger bubbled in him, his mind splitting with chaos like a flock of crows taking flight. When it came to anything to do with her, he had to work thrice as hard not to lose his temper. That would show he was capable of caring. Soft. Then what would he become to them? She was his blindspot, the part of him that could be twisted and used against him.

Nonetheless, Lestrange was going to lose a several pints of blood, should this hindrance between him and Alya, continue a second longer.

"Speak. Louder," Tom gritted. 

Fortunately, Romulus found his volume and a backbone; "Our contacts could not locate Skarsson in the Spanish ports. I tried to-"

"That is disappointing."

Romulus' mouth hung open like a fly-trap, then shut immediately. There was a dagger in Tom's mind. He was determined to kill Argus. Kill him slowly. But thus far, this matter had been met with incompetence.

Tom rose, drew his wand, and Lestrange flinched. That was power. It was the secure knowledge that no one would dare move against him. That a draw of his wand could have grown men, shaking in their boots; that they would utter his name with fear in their voices, whilst cheering the spread of his influence to conquer distant lands. He never had to fear again. 

Yet he sent his followers after Skarsson, becoming exactly what he scorned in Evander Travers months ago when he attacked Alya at his fianceé's behest. 

_I do have fear. Fear for her._

But then, what was the point of the power he accumulated if he could not use it to vanquish the enemies that sought to destroy what mattered to him? 

. . .

The sun exhaled its final rays of warmth and dusk's orange fingers stretching across the sky. At long last, he left the meeting before he could curse those purebloods. He spared Lestrange for the sake of time. He levelled his breathing to still the fury quaking his chest. 

As he neared his flat, Tom stared into the darkened corners, following the urging of his senses. He has been looking over his shoulder for enemies ever since he was a boy. Orphanage yard bullies were traded for enemies of the dark lord. It was beneficial to expand into Eastern Europe, but the wider the circle, the more chances there were for a wizard to stab him in the back-

He whirled his head at the light thud behind him, but the street was empty. The assuring weight of his wand grazed his palm- 

Everything happened so quickly. A gust of wind flung half his cloak up, then Alya was a foot from his side, his nose assaulted with orange blossoms. Her lips touched his cheek, light and full of promise. His skin shivered, crazed joy awakening in his limbs. His mind emptied, the cord that joined their souls pulled taut. Just when he got a hold of his senses, she disapparated. He grabbed at the air, her musical laugh cut off like the heels of a dream pursuing him into morning. Tom whirled in a dizzying spiral. 

Alya appeared, leaning against a lamppost several paces from him with a smile. Her presence dulling that dagger in his mind. His limbs struggled to hold himself back, maintaining some shred of dignity, even though half of him wanted to pitch forward. When he didn't move, she strode to him with a confidence that stole his breath.

A grin stretched slowly over his lips; a true smile, it was like wearing someone else's skin, every single time. "Were you trying to sneak up on me, Ms. Moore? I made you a mile a way." 

"Ah but I succeeded, didn't I? I got you first, Riddle," she stopped in front of him, with a half-lidded smile that could undo him. "Admit defeat." 

Tom lowered his head, his answer was a whispered invocation. "Never." 

He was never comfortable to be touched by others, even in courteous instances. It was a game he tolerated. But not with her. She spoke the language of touch better than he did, something he was only beginning to learn. Every time Tom initiated the first touch was like diving off a cliffside, a terrifying plunge into unknown waters. This time, Alya took the plunge for him;

She gripped his collar with a physical strength he was unaware she possessed. They were on a street, it was too public for him, this affection too visible, people would _know._ But the overwhelming need for her banished his reservations, and his heart took command of itself. He wrenched her closer, scarcely stopping a groan at the softness of her against the hardness of him. Their lips met, opened wider. Her tongue slide into his mouth, and he tasted citrus. The roaring in his blood rushed lower and lower. His hands settled onto her waist, the heat of her skin swirling through the delicate fabric of her dress.

He pulled back to look at her, breathing hard, struck with a tiny terror that this was a good dream he was stuck in. But it wasn't. The tension of the past few days; his berating bosses, the meetings, released from his spine. His lungs finally remembered how to function, and he liked being reason she had to catch her breathe. The colours of the world were richer, the ones that made Alya the ones he liked the most. Her silvery eyes, her hair as dark as the boldest night, her bitten lips a dark rose, and dress a sage green like the first sprigs of spring. 

"I like this sort of hello," he whispered with a grin. 

"Did you think of me, often? While I was gone?" She threaded her fingers through his hair. 

"A little," he murmured, to tease. "Mostly of the things I wanted to do to you." Her lips feathered against his, her teeth nipped his bottom lip. "How you would, blush when I whispered them to you."

The corner of her lip crinkled like a sweet wrapper. "Tell me."

The rest of the world was quiet when she was near, yet he had more to focus on; the arch of her brows, the sunset glowing against her brown skin-

The loss in her eyes.

He should have seen it before, but he was swept so suddenly into her tide he missed it. Tom pulled back. "Is something the matter? Did you see your mother?"

"I did." The stiffness and strangled hurt of her answer was enough to make Tom dim his desires, and allow this strange feeling that always caught him unawares; where he made an incision to his heart, took her pain and made it his. 

"What happened?" 

She ran her fingers down his chest, stirring the flames within him. "We can talk about it later. Or not at all, frankly I don't care." 

"Alya-"

Tom leaned from her completely. She wasn't smiling anymore. He could read into her silence; the struggle in her throat, the way her head hung. His hand clutched her arm firmly. "Tell me." _Tell me who caused you pain and I will bring the heavens down on them._

"Something is troubling you. You're trying to hide it, but I know." 

Every shake of her head as she tried to hold it together made it even harder to do so. "Tom, it's so-" she broke with a smothered a sob. A few passerbys peered at them, curious. Resisting the urge to bark at them, he apparated them to his rooftop, he ventured there to think sometimes, to see the world spread before him and imagine it was already his. 

The wind stole her gasp, London city unfolded before them. The dimming sunlight set the structures alight in orange and gold magnificence. Afar, the dome of St Paul's cathedral, shone in white gold, it's highest point jousting the air.

He tugged at her shoulders, and when she didn't move, his arms enveloped her, as the first tears wet his suit jacket. "Shh." The pads of his fingers spaced out at the base of her neck, and their chests pressed together, the sobs that wracked through her, reverberated onto him. "Let the storm leave your body." 

Tom had never comforted another human being. She cried like any other girl did. He's seen it plenty of times before; new admissions to the orphanage, bad haircuts, happy tears, and fake tears. None had moved him even an inch. Now his soul was being shoved off this very roof. A jolt of red-hot anger just as quickly dissipated. _My anger will not help her, not now._ With Alya every new experience was a learning curve for him, so he held her a while, hoping her pain would lesson if he held her tighter. 

He guided them to a low wall to sit on. She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, that was once his, and heaved a shaky exhale; "I don't fit anywhere in their story. My parents, that is. When I found out she was alive, I was so happy. I wanted to leave this place and find her, have a fresh start. I wanted her to fix everything. But she was too broken, even before she met me." 

Tom understood that thirst to discover one's origins. As if it could complete him somehow. _Only for it to be so wretched, disgusting and disappointing. Muggle father. Powerless mother._

"What was she like in the years you got to know her?"

"She made me feel like I was finally understood, and that I belonged, like magic was beautiful again," said Alya, voice scratchy. "I was not shackled to what was expected of me, and everyday was adventurous. Then it stopped being like that. Or I grew up," she shrugged, morosely. "She lived for herself, jumping from one peak to another, and I didn't belong there anymore. I know she tried, but only half her heart was in it. I think I always knew, but I didn't want to admit my mistakes." Alya bit back another wave of tears. "She regrets me, she won't say it, but she does. You should see how she is now, without a soul; she truly doesn't care that I did what I did for her. I think she hates me." 

Alya deserved it all. Everything she desired in the world. It shook him with newfound fury that she did not have it, that anyone would ever dare to treat her without respect and care she deserved. He held her hand, squeezed it, without looking at him, she squeezed back.

"I hate her back," she glared at the ground. "But I'm angry that I hate her--because I didn't want to hate her." 

"It's hard to have so much faith in someone, only for them to let you down." 

"Mother's are supposed to see you and love you, before you become anything. You're just there, and you exist, and they accept you. How simple it all seemed," she said. "But it was all in my head. She looked at me the moment I was born and saw nothing." It must be different when one was born into their mother's arms and not into the cold bed of an orphanage.

"As for my father-" Alya snorted derisively. "He was no different from the next pureblood prince. Claiming honour and duty but he was just a selfish coward. He wanted to keep me, but only because he felt he a right too, and to hurt her." 

_At least he was brave enough to want_ face _you. He didn't seek to abandon you as if you were some demon spawn from Hell._

Tom scoured that rushed, petty thought from his mind. It wasn't fair to hold any bitterness against Alya. For the first time, there was someone who was capable of understanding his own disillusionment with his parents. Whom understood even a fraction of what it was like to grow up parentless. 

"My mother disappointed me, too," Tom muttered, bile thick in his throat.

"I thought you never met her." Her eyes met his. The crescent moon hugged her cheek and the stars dimmed in envy of her radiance. There truly was nothing—no one—more beautiful. It was a shame he was compelled to share another decrepit part of his past that only ever surfaced in her company. As if it begged to be given life, no matter how long he'd spent trying to kill it. 

"I know a few things. How she...kept my father around under false pretences. Forced him into marriage, so he left. She became too weak at the end to survive childbirth." 

Alya knew when not to pry too much. A single chord of perception stood in her gaze. "It's not your fault."

"I never said it was anyone's fault." His response cut the air, shoulders tight. He didn't think he would ever get accustomed to her pity with his pathetic revelations, or how she could peek into the hidden depths of his mind.

"Still, I am sorry that happened to you. That you had to become so jaded with the harsh reality of the world at such a young age."

Tom released her hand sharply, but he had held it so tightly that the warm imprint of her palm lingered like a ghost. "Enough. It's the past. I have come to terms with it." 

That was a lie. He blamed his mother, his father. But beneath it all..he also blamed himself. Was he so worthless to both of them? Why couldn't his mother be stronger for him? Why did they leave him? Why did no one come for him for years in that wretched orphanage? Why? A toxic sickness burned through his throat and lungs, choking him, and his mind spiralled down an abyss.

It was too late to hide the chaos in his face. She saw it. How he exposed himself like a fresh wound. Tom only remembered to breathe when Alya laced her fingers through his and rested her head on his shoulder. She made small soothing circles on the back of his hand. In her way told him; _you don't have to say anything else. I know. It's okay._ Anyone else would have flinched. Not her. The only one who ever cared to listen. The silence that followed was as comfortable and warm as a blanket. They stared at the slivers of moon on building tops, the pockets of night that clung below. Even the wind could not disturb this still moment. 

"Do you a miss parent you've never known?" 

"No." He didn't tense this time. He spent years trying to be free of his past, he'd never imagined Alya would be the one to free him from it. "Especially when there is no one to speak of them and tell you stories about them." 

"You live only as long as the last person who remembers you." She made a breathy, broken laugh. "I can't even remember who told me that."

"I will always remember it was you who told me." He stared at the top of her head. "As I told the stars about you, last night." 

Alya wound her arm through his and kissed his shoulder. "And what did you tell them?"

Tom's fingertips threaded through the obsidian of her hair. "How you are my delight when you near. My agony when you are away."

She smiled, and he could scarcely believe he was the reception of such a tender gaze. "I missed you, too." She kissed him on the cheek, then his other cheek. "I mustn't forget here," she kissed his temples, "and here," then both jawlines. Each spot, equally cherished. His eyes remained closed, and he was blushing red and fiercely, but if he could die in that moment, to be smothered by her kisses seemed like the best way to go.

"I won't be the best company tonight. It still hurts," she sighed and rested her brow against his. Alya took his left hand and splayed it over her breastbone, her heart thudded beneath his palm as if in greeting. 

"Here, as if my heart is bruised. I never want to feel pain like this ever again." 

He clutched that space, as if he had the power to heal a broken heart. But he realised, that might be a spell he would never master. "If I could take away your pain I would." 

Alya's sure fingers held the side of his neck. The moonlight lit her eyes to platinum, the fierceness in them could reduce a man to ashes. "I would do the same for you." A declaration. A promise. A vow exchanged that encased them in suits of armour. Had anyone ever deemed him worthy and exulted enough of making a promise like that? Not the Lord or Heir, but _him._ Tom Riddle?

"Even the pain you hide so well," she caressed his cheek. "Even though, sometimes I think it's what you have to endure, no matter how difficult and exhausting it is." 

"Why would you let it do that to you?" The way she saw the world would never cease to beguile him. To him, pain required fortification. Powerful and strong enough to keep the armies thirsting for your spilled blood at bay. It was not wilful suffering. 

"It reminds me I'm alive. Otherwise, I think I'd be totally numb. It shapes you, frees you. Slowly, and when you least expect it, you become hopeful again. Even though you are living in dull agony, you drag yourself through it. You think your heart cannot hold anymore suffering but it does. Then it heals, scabs over scabs." She brushed a wayward curl out of his eyes. "There's power in that struggle, too." 

Alya gave new meaning to every word he presumed to know.

"Do you think you'll forgive her?" He'd never be capable of it. Not everyone deserved his forgiveness. 

"I don't know. I don't think forgiveness means forgiving the person. But acknowledging that what they did was not okay, and letting yourself move on," she sighed tiredly. "But I know I will be okay again." 

Tom could only watch her. Bereft of any wise words. Not that she needed it. She was capable of seeking her own strength. She could break and mend him with one sentence, one look, one smile. He realised that sometimes the splinters in two separate souls became the very hinges that held them together. 

"You stare at me like that a lot," Alya mused, and he swore her eyes were brighter than the stars. 

He blinked, dazed. "Like what?" 

"Like you're not convinced I'm real."

"The majesty of your presence often has that effect on me." 

Alya grinned. Like the besotted fool he was, he grinned back. "Never stop talking to me like that, I enjoy it too much." 

"I will recite and craft endless poetry, only for you Moore." 

"Good. I like your pretty words." 

Tom chuckled, and she held his gaze softly. "You guard your laughs and smiles so diligently. I wish you didn't. There are so special to me." She shrugged, smiling wistfully. "I just wanted you to know that."

There was something more being parsed out in her words. Admiration. It warmed him to his toes, flooded him with the feeling that he was undeserving of it. She grounded him. Humbled him. Nourished his soul. Tom could not pretend that something real, terrifying, and great was not happening inside of him, because of Alya. It was proving impossible to fight it. 

Her fore and middle fingers brushed his cupid's bow, her palm cupping his cheek. Alya leaned in and kissed his lips, soft and sweet as morning dew. She rested her cheek on his shoulder, and he nestled his chin against her forehead. His every breath timed with the beat of her heart. One of her arms dropped to wrap around his waist, the other clutched the nape of his neck, holding him close to her. He couldn't remember if anyone had ever held him so gently. 

* * *

**A/N: If those last paragraphs didn't have you going 'awww' maybe I need increase the fluffliness hahah I enjoyed writing it. I hope you liked the scene of Tom in the meeting, I thought it was boring at first but I wanted to see him actually be a leader everyone says he is.**

**"You live only as long as the last person who remembers you." is a quote from Westworld. One of my fav shows :)**

**There will be sexier scenes in the coming chapters, but I wanted to strengthen their relationship first. Please leave kudos and comments :)**


End file.
